


Birds of Prey

by Riptide



Series: Sanguinarius Sanctus [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi, Multiple Pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:03:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 60
Words: 249,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riptide/pseuds/Riptide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The young twins of the Hawke brood have lived their entire lives in secret, eschewing any notoriety lest they bring the templars' scrutiny upon their family. Yet now the Blight looms, and they don't have their father to guide them through it, so they do what they must to survive. Despite their best wishes, however, fate has too much in store for either of them to wallow in obscurity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ostagar

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks go to buttercup23 here at AO3 (AKA clafount from fanfiction.net) for her awesome beta-reading skills. You should definitely check her stories out!
> 
> Also, all of the Elvhen terms in this story are derived from 'Katie's Best Guess at Elvhen', which can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/359253

The sun rose readily over the ancient fortress, as it had for each of the previous twenty days Carver Hawke had been there. The odd, thick storm clouds still massed to the South, looking somehow blacker by the hour, yet the army’s encampment was plagued with dust and flies from the latrines. The previous evening, Carver had pulled latrine duty with Paquis, an elf from a farmhold in South Reach. They started before dawn, and by midmorning the flies were simply awful, as big as his thumb. They had to dig the new trench just ten yards from the old one, to keep the sector from growing too rapidly; with their dull spades, the work was hard, especially since they had to wear their splintmail and weapons. So after only a few hours’ work, both human and elf were ready to faint from the stench of shit and their own sweat, and they decided to break early for their midday meal.

When they were a hundred metres from the offal ditches, Carver hazarded removing his helmet. The full faceplate offered protection from the Maker-damned flies, but it was too stifling in the full heat of day. Luckily, in both of the battles he’d participated in so far, the darkspawn had had the good sense to attack at dusk. “I think I’m liable to die before we make it to the mess,” he sighed, wiping what felt like a quart of sweat from his brow.

“Then the serge’d make me carry you all the way back to the latrines, Hawkeye,” the elf pointed out, only half-jokingly.

Carver shrugged, fixing his helmet to his belt. “At least I wouldn’t have to smell them anymore, Paq,” he retorted.

The elf doffed his helmet as well, when they were a bit nearer the great open-sided tent which housed one of the army’s three mess halls. They’d become friends of a sort, Carver and Paquis, the warrior and the rogue. Carver knew none of the soldiers from Lothering who’d answered Bann Ceorlic’s call for volunteers, and his two sisters certainly wouldn’t appreciate him making any more local acquaintances who might want to come calling; once the king’s business was done in Ostagar, Paquis would go back to his own village across the Imperial Highway, and the two would likely never meet again. Assuming either of them lived to see this place behind them, that made the elf an acceptable comrade.

“The next battle’s gonna be tomorrow,” Paquis mumbled, around a mouthful of grey stew. “Heard whisper of it outside the serge’s tent, last night.”

Carver nearly choked on his stringy ham. “You mad? Sneaking around after what happened to Shelby?”

The elf snorted into his watered-down ale. “That bastard couldn’t sneak his way past a lame mabari with its nose cut off.” Paquis glanced around, making sure nobody else was in whispering distance. “They say it’s gonna be in the valley, right at the foot of the fortress.”

That sent ice cutting through the human’s stomach. Ostagar was supposed to be a hard-point, where the army would stockpile supplies and tend its injured while it pushed South into the Korcari Wilds, but each of the three major engagements with the darkspawn had seen the fighters march right back to the fortress rather than capitalise upon the victories they’d seen. “I wonder how many times we’ve got to retreat before they stop saying we’re winning,” Carver grumbled, suddenly off his appetite. He kept eating, though, too mindful of the sergeant’s low opinion of waste in his company.

“Maybe we can break ‘em in the canyon,” Paquis suggested, his tone far from optimistic. “Not shaping up like you thought it would, Hawkeye?”

Carver swallowed the last of his ham and started on the stew, taking a couple of mouthfuls before he saw fit to answer. “I didn’t think,” he admitted. “Just needed to get away from home, is all. Now I just want to be able to go back with my head high and on my shoulders, and see my sisters again.” One sister in particular, he thought, though he didn’t feel the need to mention it to his acquaintance.

The rogue slurped up the last of his stew and dumped his cube of ham onto Carver’s rough-hewn tray. “Why didn’t they come, too?” He asked, with a shrug. “Plenty of girls in armour around.”

“They’re...not the fighting type,” Carver improvised, silently cursing himself for bringing up his magical siblings. “And someone needed to stay behind and take care of Mother.”

Paquis let the matter drop with a grunt, looking over his shoulder. “Speaking of skirts,” he drawled, “I’ve got an appointment with a campie I don’t want to miss. I’ll need you to cover for me until three bells.”

The warrior’s brow arched. “Why can’t you sneak off to see her tonight?”

The elf stretched as he stood. “Why is Shelby hanging in a cage?” He shook his head. “Three bells,” he warned. “Maybe four.”

“Fuck off, Paq,” Carver answered casually. “If the serge comes asking why we’re not half done by two bells, I’ll tell ‘em you were off digging a trench of your own.” He winked, and was rewarded with a light tap to his shoulder.

“See you later, Hawkeye,” Paquis called, once he’d turned to leave.

Carver waved the elf away and returned to his food, passing the balance of the hour with slow nibbles and short pulls of ale until his plank of wood and clay tankard were both clean. Then he stood, too, and struck out for the camp’s quartermaster; he needed a new pair of boots, and it wouldn’t do to return to his odious duty on a full stomach, unless he wanted to waste his lunch after all. As he trod toward the encampment’s entrance, a warbler’s call caught his ear, and his eyes lifted skyward almost of their own accord. In that instant, he nearly tripped over another elf---a quick glance told him that she must be a servant, given the ill-fitting peasant clothes she wore. He caught her just as she stumbled away from him. “Watch it,” he cautioned, but he let her go when he felt her tense up. He meant to step around her and continue on his way, but just as he turned to go, the woman sucked in a breath.

“Knifey...?”

The name brought him to a halt, and he looked more closely at the elf. Recognition hit him all at once---the dark hair, caramel-brown skin and crimson eyes stood out as proudly in his memory as though he’d only seen the girl the day before. A grin took his lips as a sudden surge of joy flooded through his chest. “Adra!” And then he pulled her up into a hug, nearly crushing her against him; her hair smelt vaguely of charcoal, just as it had all those years ago. He hardly felt the elf hugging him back, thanks to his splintmail, but she managed to get his attention with a few swift kicks to the shins. Finally he put her down, still smiling. “Maker, I haven’t seen you since...” Then his lips faltered, a sudden stab of fear lancing through the happiness which the impromptu reunion had generated. “Are you...on the run, Adra?” Her true name was Athadra, but she’d earned the elided version in retaliation for her own rebranding of his given name.

A well-armed Grey Warden, whom Carver had thought simply a passerby in the tumult of the camp, stepped closer and spoke up. “If an apostate’s first thought is to run into the middle of a Chantry-observing army, I’d have to wonder how they’d managed to escape in the first place. I’m Alistair, soon to be the no-longer-most junior Grey Warden in Ferelden.” Though the man played at wiping his eye, Carver detected a hint of a threat behind his jests. “It’ll be quite an honour to give up the mantle at long last...”

The regular soldier relaxed, comforted to know that his childhood friend wasn’t simply a fugitive from the Circle Tower. “So,” he ventured, as Athadra stooped to pick up what must have been her Circle stave, “you’re joining the Grey Wardens?” He gave the short-haired blond man, Alistair, a sidelong glance. Though it was well-known that King Cailan favoured the Grey Wardens above any other fighting force, their pitiful numbers and endless mission did little to bring them respect amongst the men-at-arms of the regular army. “Was the Circle that bad?”

Her fist took him by surprise when it collided with his armoured stomach, but he remembered that the elf had always been stronger than her slight frame would’ve suggested. “Yes it were, thank you very much...and all thanks to you and that sodding sister of yours.”

Carver winced, suddenly remembering the day all-too-clearly; she was ten, he and his twin sister Bethany nine, while their older sister, Cethlenn, was a few weeks from turning thirteen. A self-conscious cough tore him out of his reverie, and Alistair spoke up again.

“It looks like I’m at a disadvantage, here. You both know me, but I only know one of you...” The Grey Warden looked from human to elf, expectantly.

Athadra stepped backward and gestured between the two men. “Sorry! Alistair, this is Carver. I knew him and his family in Lothering, before I got caught.”

Carver forced a chuckle, his lips twisting into a bit of a grimace. “I, uh...might have played a bit of a part in that,” he said sheepishly.

“Might have?” He stumbled backward a step, this time, from the force of her open palm smacking into his sternum. “You and Beth ran off and left me! How were I supposed to know the boy’s father were a templar, anyway?”

Carver made a show of surrendering, his empty hands held high. “I tried writing to you, honest,” he claimed, remembering the letter he’d scribbled. “But Father said it wouldn’t’ve gotten through...” He shook his head, his ears still ringing from the argument he’d had with the man; Carver had only relented when the risk to his apostate siblings had been spelled out for him. “I’m really sorry, Adra. We didn’t know, either...I promise, we didn’t.” He swallowed, looking at the griffon crest and blue-and-silver padding Alistair’s armour bore. “And you look like you’ve done well for yourself. It’s a big honour, joining the Wardens.” He tried at a smile, but felt it falter under the weight of years that he’d not seen the elf.

Then Athadra broached the obvious question, which Carver again hadn’t had the foresight to avoid. “How is Mister Hawke, anyway?”

A spasm twitched over the soldier’s cheeks. When would he ever learn to stop mentioning his family in front of strangers? “Dead,” he allowed, after a moment. “Three years come Kingsway.”

Athadra seemed to have no answer to that, but her large companion came to her rescue. “Sorry to hear that. I don’t mean to interrupt this rendez-vous, but I was just taking Athadra to get some grub. Do you want to come along?” Something deep in the man’s expression was less than inviting, but when Carver heard the Grey Warden’s stomach audibly rumble, he put it down to simple hunger.

“Just came from the mess,” Carver sighed, swallowing the odd mixture of relief and disappointment that rose within him; seeing his childhood friend amidst all of the bustle of warfare was too strange to take in all at once. “But hey,” he pressed, looking into Athadra’s blood-coloured eyes, “you and I should catch up after the next battle, Adra. Rumour has it, it’s tomorrow evening...though how they know when the darkspawn will show up is a mystery to me.”

The Grey Warden spoke up once more. “You’re welcome,” he drawled, an indulgent grin tugging at his lips.

Carver shook his head. “I’ll look you up in a couple of days; the Wardens aren’t hard to find.” He pointed to the distinctive armour Alistair wore. Their tents were coloured similarly, cordoned off from the rest of camp. “Maybe once this is all over, you can come back to Lothering and visit.” He nearly bit his tongue on the offer, frightened that she would ask about her own mother and father, whom he hadn’t seen nor spoken to since the day she’d been taken from them, nine years before---fully half of his lifetime.

Instead, the elf simply nodded. “I...think I’d like that,” she admitted, an unfamiliar hesitation in her expression. His heartbeat hitched a few steps faster, as an echo of a childish crush flitted in the back of his mind, even as he noticed an odd shadow in her gaze. Athadra rewarded his nervous smile with one of her own. “I’ll keep an eye out once the next fight’s done. Try not to die, knifey.”

Carver brought his clenched fist to his sternum in the common soldier’s salute, inclining his head for a moment. Then, not trusting himself to speak, the warrior forged ahead, leaving his old friend in the care of her Grey Warden escort. The day’s heat sharpened as he haggled with the quartermaster over new boots; he’d been issued a pair, and wasn’t due for another  three months or more, so he’d have to purchase what he wanted out of his own pocket. Giving the old pair in trade saved a bit of the meagre coin he’d managed to hoard---unlike most of the men in his regiment, he’d opted to have three quarters of his pay sent directly to his mother, and that left him only coppers to amuse himself with. A bit of salvage from his battles had earned him enough for a few drams of contraband whiskey. His fellow fighting men, and even a couple of the women-at-arms, seemed to enjoy donating the lion’s share of their earnings to the camp followers who’d set up a shadow-encampment just to the North of the fortress. It was frowned upon, though tolerated, by the royal commissioners.

Carver had little interest in testing the limits of his sergeant’s tolerance, either for bawdiness or tardiness, so he donned his helmet and hoofed his new boots back to the latrines to fall back to his duty. When the sergeant came asking after Paquis, Carver said he’d just gone off to get himself a splash of water. The older man was suspicious, but when the helmed elf returned just a few moments later, he suffered only a harsh verbal upbraiding before the sergeant stalked off. The digging took human and elf late into evening, but by the time they were done, a week’s worth of waste trenches lay ready for use. Together, Carver and Paquis took a final meal and retired to their company’s barracks tent scant moments before curfew sounded.

The structure was larger than the royal pavilions, but not nearly so fanciful; plain off-white canvas of the same make as a fishing ship’s sail, with unfinished wooden beams to give it structure against the storms which had yet to lash the fortress, and row upon row of three-tiered bunks. Carver parted company with his companion once they reached the tent, glad for his top bunk. Even visiting the latrine after-hours courted an accusation of desertion, so more than one soldier went to sleep with too much ale and too small a bladder, to the detriment of any who might sleep below them. The night passed fitfully, for the rumour Paquis mentioned seemed to have spread of its own accord, and many of Carver’s fellow soldiers kept themselves up until the small hours with whispered prayers or drinking. Tension only increased when the sergeant roused them an hour after sunrise, rather than an hour before, and set everyone to preparing their arms and armour for inspection. Carver’s burden was lighter than some, for he kept his wide, fluted greatblade razor-sharp and wrapped in oilcloth to keep off the sweat from his back.

A few splints in his armour were tinged with a bit of rust, whether from blood or sweat or even spilt stew, and he spent a few hours worrying over them with a file and a bit of hemp oil until they shone as grey as the rest of his suit. He polished his helmet and dug the grime from the flutes in his greatblade until noon, but soon after, Carver ran out of chores with his armour. It didn’t glitter like the plate of the knights, but he was proud of his work, all the same. He caught Paquis still sharpening his daggers and muttering to himself about an itch which had plagued him in the night, so the warrior left the rogue to take a light midday meal; if there was a battle in the offing, he preferred himself taut with a bit of hunger, rather than fully sated. Afterward, Carver made himself useful by chopping wood and hauling water for a few hours, until it came time for the commissioner’s inspection.

Bann Ceorlic was far too old to take to war himself, and he had a spendthrift daughter who’d never be caught lifting anything heavier than a cat, much less a bow or blade. Thus one of Ceorlic’s trusted advisors stood in his stead as Teyrn Loghain’s commissioner went through the three ranks of men and women from Lothering and the outlying settlements who owed the bann their allegiance. As an unseasoned swordsman with potential, Carver’s lot was at the right end of the middle rank, where he might swing his greatblade unhindered by allies and yet gain more experience before taking a more honoured position in the front. When the commissioner passed him by, the man gave him a perfunctory tap on the shoulder; Carver ignored the prod, his heartbeat echoing inside his helmet, and the commissioner moved on. Eventually the man nodded, turning to Ceorlic’s lieutenant.

“I believe these dogs’ll do,” the commissioner growled. “Take ‘em across the bridge.”

Ceorlic’s man, the son of an Orlesian knight in service to Ceorlic’s father, simply nodded and gestured to the sergeant. Carver realised that he didn’t even know the man’s name, so little did he speak; having an Orlesian accent might have been the height of fashion thirty years ago, but it was clearly a liability in the midst of a Fereldan army in the present day.

“Right, pups,” the sergeant barked. “Fall into line!”

The company acted as one, borne of hours spent drilling for discipline over the past month. The three ranks merged into a single crisp line, and at the sergeant’s gesture, the mass of metal-clad soldiers set to marching through the encampment. They headed East, across the great, crumbling bridge which spanned the canyon Ostagar had been built to command. The sun turned red as it set at their backs, and in the gathering darkness, they took position with four other companies amidst the thick woods of a sloping hill. As always, the common soldiers of Carver’s company knew nothing; they stood hidden in the trees, waiting for the call to advance.

Carver’s tongue grew heavy in his mouth as whispers and crickets sounded around him; he knew Paquis was somewhere nearby, but he did not dare try and seek the elf out, too mindful of how that might look to any commissioners or sergeants milling around behind them. His stomach tightened from nerves and hunger, but the minutes dragged on, for Maker knew how long. He said a short prayer for his mother and his two sisters, and finally for himself, but then he tried to clear his mind of what was to come---the mindless, ravening beasts who knew only slaughter, who would see all of Ferelden burnt and rotting if not for men like him, willing to fight and die to check the monsters. Carver tried to find the calm that Andraste was said to have attained, even in the face of Her own execution by fire, and he hoped that if he were to fall, someone would see his body to the pyre.

The darkness ahead of the soldiers, to the South, began to lift strangely. Those churning storm clouds were drawing closer, as evidenced by the intermittent flashes of lightning which occasionally threw the field before them into sharp relief. Yet in the distance, beyond the dry plain, the side of a far mountain seemed to catch fire as though it were a volcano. Carver’s breath caught as he watched the dull orange glow crawl down the mountainside, his fingers tensing at his sides; the monsters were coming, he could tell, and any moment might bring the call to charge down their hill and into the teeth of the fiends. But the call failed to materialise, even when the rumble of the darkspawn’s advance shook through the soles of his new boots and rustled the boughs around him. Still the call did not come, when the formless mass of darkspawn broke over the open fields, sending massive fireballs before them, propelled either by magic or the sort of craftiness only an Archdemon was supposed to instill in the monsters. When the soldiers inside the canyon let loose with arrows and sent Ferelden’s famous mabari hounds to engage with the vanguard, Carver felt his spine tingling with anticipation, mixed with fear.

But the command simply did not sound, not even when the darkspawn rushed into the canyon to face King Cailan’s forces head-on. There were so many of the tainted creatures on the field, even with battle noisily joined in the valley, that Carver might have doubted whether the hundred-and-fifty-odd soldiers which stood in the trees around him would be enough to make the difference. Surely, Carver told himself, the king would require their aid any minute now. But the minute passed, and the one after that, with the horde swelling before his very eyes and silence from his superiors ringing in his ears.

Finally, after what felt like another hour of listening to the battle raging half a kilometre to his right, Carver heard a great cheer lift from the fighters in the canyon. He swiveled his head, and through the eyeholes in his helmet he spied a great burst of flame spouting upward from the top of the Tower of Ishal. With laboured breaths which echoed oddly inside his helmet, Carver reached up to grab the hilt of his greatblade, certain he’d have need of it presently---if they did not charge soon, the darkspawn would surely discover them where they stood, regardless.

At long last, Carver discerned the yells of command from the officers at his back. “Retreat!” He heard his sergeant bark. “Pull out, pups! Back up the hill!”

It took the soldier a moment to register what was happening, but when the sergeant repeated his orders, Carver found himself backing up the steep grade as quickly as his fresh boots would allow. His stomach felt hollow when he finally made the plateau, and saw the splintmail-clad men and women of his company emerge from the trees around him. No one spoke except to bark more orders, for them to fall into line and set to marching. Carver’s legs felt like lead, but he obeyed, putting one foot in front of the other until the ruined walls of Ostagar had fallen away from him and the winding road to the Imperial Highway spread out in front.


	2. Taking Wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paquis and his human companion decide to make a break for freedom, now that their king is dead and their country is headed for destruction. Their path will be far from easy, however.

The army was hardly disciplined as it beat a retreat North, along the Imperial Highway. The anxiety which the prospect of battle had instilled was left unresolved by quitting the field, and what had entered Ostagar as a well-regulated column exited it as a formless snake, writhing in upon itself as companies broke apart, despite the barking orders of superiors upon horseback. Some few hours before dawn, Carver and Paquis reunited by accident, and marched side-on-side in silence for half a mile before the elf finally spoke up.

“Long live the king,” Paquis muttered, bitterly.

Carver blinked, suddenly nervous. “What do you mean?” Murmurs of conversation surrounded them, but he still whispered at his softest register, confident that the elf’s sharp ears could pick it up.

“What do you think?” The elf shot back, swallowing a bark. “You were there, Hawkeye. You saw the darkspawn funneling into the valley.”

“But...” The warrior blinked again, stumbling over a crack in the Highway and catching himself on the armoured man in front of him. After muttering an apology, Carver glanced back. “The king could have called the retreat and be ahead of us,” he ventured, sounding even less convinced than he felt.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Paquis sneered. “Cailan’s dead, and so are the shem lords closest to him.”

Carver’s empty stomach felt like lead. “Do you think the king died before we pulled back? Or after?”

Paquis’ armour jostled with his shrug. “Doesn’t matter,” the rogue spat. “When I saw that sodding tower light up like a candle, I was sure that was the signal to charge.”

“Me, too,” the warrior echoed, and they spent another few hundred yards without breaking further words. “Do you think we’ll regroup in Lothering or Redcliffe, and wait for reinforcements?”

“Not a chance,” the elf replied. “They’re marching us too hard for that.” He shook his head. “If I had my guess, I’d say you’re for Denerim, Hawkeye.”

Carver stumbled again, but managed to catch himself without disturbing anyone in front of him. “Me?” A brow rose, and his voice dropped so low that he feared his friend might not hear. “You’re going to run?”

“An hour after we bed down,” Paquis confirmed, under his breath. “Old Paq’s got a homecoming he’d rather miss.”

“Hang on,” Carver interjected. “I thought you said you were from South Reach.”

Another barked laugh. “I lied, Hawkeye,” the elf admitted. “Don’t ask me why.”

Carver nodded; whatever betrayal he might have felt at the falsehood was lost amidst the sea of uncertainty which the renewed march had bred in him. “Where will you go?”

The rogue’s answer was long in coming. “West Hill,” he said at last. “And then a boat out of this place.” Carver chanced a glance to see the elf’s eyes glittering beneath his helmet. “It ain’t gonna be pretty when the darkspawn realise that the army’s not holding them back from the bannorn anymore.”

“Maker,” Carver breathed, his mind wandering back to Lothering, to his home. “You really think we’re marching to Denerim?”

“Cailan left no heir,” Paquis pointed out. “And Ferelden’s never had a queen regent before, except Moira the Rebel Queen, and she got her head cut off before she ever got near Denerim. A Blight’s not a prime time to set that kind of precedent.” He shook his head. “No, you’re going to the capitol, probably to secure a regency. It might get...interesting.”

The warrior had known that his friend was smart, but he was ashamed that the elf had worked out so much before Carver himself had even recovered from the shock of the massive defeat they were all running madly away from. His chest felt hollow as he imagined that awful horde gathering its strength and driving up the Imperial Highway, straight to Lothering and the patchwork of freeholds beyond. “Would they do that? Let half the fucking country burn?”

“In my experience,” Paquis growled, “shemlen will do anything for a glimmer of power. I wouldn’t put it past Teyrn Loghain.”

“Then I’m coming with you,” Carver vowed, in a rushed exhalation. “Or, rather, you’re coming with me. To Lothering,” he clarified. “And then to West Hill and the Free Marches.”

The silence which answered him took the warrior by surprise, but he let the rogue take his time. After what felt like half a kilometre of solid stomping, Paquis finally yielded a reply. “You’re not half bad, Hawkeye,” he allowed. “For a shem.”

“I won’t tell my sisters that you said so,” Carver vowed, smirking into his helmet. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

A nod sufficed, and the pair spent the remainder of the night in a deep silence, amongst the plodding cadence of boots hitting stone or the buzzing whispers of half a hundred murmured conversations. As the Northeastern sky’s rim grew to lavender, the horse-mounted sergeants and commissioners called for a few hours’ rest. Slowly, the rabble ground to a stop, and people were encouraged to drop where they stood along the road. Requests for rations were either ignored or rebuffed, so despite his burning throat and growling stomach, Carver decided not to draw attention to himself; luckily Paquis had had the foresight to slowly guide them to the edge of the raised road well before the order to halt. Nerves kept the warrior from sleeping, though he closed his eyes for what felt like half an Age before he felt a feather-light brush against his cheek.

“Ready, Hawkeye?” The rogue’s voice was barely discernable above the crickets, but Carver nodded, his heart in his throat. “Loosen your straps and get ready to run.” The elf shuffled closer to the edge, and Carver heard him complain about his bowels to what must have been a sentry; the warrior kept his eyes firmly lidded, even as his fingers sought the joints in his splintmail---the protection it afforded was not worth its weight.

A minute later, Carver stirred, leaving his helm and gauntlets behind. “Need a piss,” he grunted at the sour-faced guard who stood watch over their sector of the Highway.

“Don’t letcher back out o’ me sight,” the older man barked, still glancing after the path Paquis had taken. “Or I’ll call the dogs on ye.”

Carver gave a single-fisted salute and slipped off the edge of the raised road, shuffling over to a clutch of nettles. He spotted Paquis’ bare head through the boughs of a tree, and a sudden calm settled over him; as though he owned the forest, Carver simply strolled past the bush and into the treeline, a smirk crawling over his lips. Paquis was on him an instant later, sliding a dagger between the loosened straps in the warrior’s breastplate and grieves, and the weighty metal fell to the ground just as the shouts came up behind them.

And so they ran, with only their weapons, boots, and underclothes. Though Paquis had misled Carver about his origins, the elf glided through the forest as fleetly as the warrior. The hew and cry grew more distant as the pair struck out from the Highway, but it was not long before they discovered that King Cailan hadn’t taken all of the army’s hounds down in his ignominious defeat. A pair of mabaris soon announced their chase with a chorus of barks, and Carver called his companion to a halt in a small clearing. “We’ll never outrun them,” the warrior panted, readying his greatblade.

Paquis gritted his teeth, his long ears twitching as the baying grew ever nearer. For his part, Carver remembered the mabari pup he’d gotten his younger sister a year after their father’s death. Well, he’d stolen it, really. Still, it had imprinted on Bethany within moments of opening its eyes, and could hardly stand to be parted with her.

In that small clearing, Carver tried to clear his mind of such thoughts as he and Paquis faced down the attack dogs. The underbrush rustled to either side of the warrior and the rogue, and suddenly the canines were upon them, teeth bared and eyes glinting. They were both painted with black and red ash, denoting them as companion hounds of the Ash Warriors, and thus even more fearsome than run-of-the-mill war dogs. Carver’s attention focused on the dog nearest to him, a great death-dealing hulk of muscle, claws, and teeth. Time seemed to slow for the warrior as he brought his fluted greatblade to bear. The four-legged bastard was fast, though; it dodged Carver’s first swing and lunged right for his throat, and the warrior didn’t have time to raise his sword again before the dog was on him. He threw up his left forearm at the last second, hissing when the mabari’s teeth found purchase on the flesh of his limb.

The dog’s momentum carried it forward into Carver’s chest, knocking him back off of his feet---his sword clattered to the ground as he fell, and the warrior closed his eyes against the pain in his arm and the shame of falling so easily. Just when he expected the mabari to wrench his arm off, however, a high-pitched whine sounded above him and the hound collapsed. When Carver opened his eyes, he saw Paquis tugging one of his daggers from the beast’s throat. With a grunt, the warrior tipped the mabari off of him. “Thank you,” he heaved, but the elf was already tearing at his own shirt.

“Here,” Paquis huffed, throwing Carver a long strip of cloth. He wrapped the rest of the fabric around his middle, nursing a deep scratch in his flank. Grunting once more, Carver wrapped the rag around his bitten limb. “You were lucky,” the elf went on. “Just a flesh wound.”

Carver worried at the cloth, finally managing to tie a knot with one hand. Blood soaked through the bandage already, but it wasn’t nearly heavy enough to worry him. “I’m...sorry, Paq,” he said, tentatively. “I should’ve fought better than that.”

Paquis waved his concern off. “Let’s go, Hawkeye,” he gruffed, turning to forge into the thick of the woods again. As Carver moved to follow, the elf glanced over his shoulder with a smirk. “You can return the favour next time!”

Carver nodded, silently praying that there wouldn’t be a next time. Surely the army was far too disorganised to mount an effective search for a pair of deserters. Nevertheless, the pair continued their flight. They ran through the morning and the heat of the day, pushing themselves beyond their thirst and hunger, driven by fear of further pursuit. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm Carver by sunset, and he came to a halt just as dusk fell around them. “Do you think we’ve lost them?”

“Doubt it,” Paquis snarled, nursing the wound in his side from the fight. “But we need to rest,” he pointed out, “or they’ll catch us when we faint.” The elf nodded to a large oak tree, whose boughs fanned out just out of reach of a mabari’s jump. “That should serve us, at least for a few hours.”

“You first,” Carver remarked, when they reached the tree’s trunk. “I’ll hand up my sword and follow.” Wordlessly, he offered his hands with fingers laced. He knew that Paquis would’ve disdained the help if there’d been anyone else with them, but he was glad when the elf stepped onto the proffered foothold and let Carver boost him up to the nest of limbs. The warrior’s way up was a bit more difficult, but a lifetime in the half-tamed bannorn had taught Carver all he’d needed to learn about climbing trees.

Evening passed into full dark without another word passing between the deserters. Carver’s thirst and hunger made him more alert, so he kept watch for a couple of hours while Paquis napped fitfully. When the warrior’s eyelids began drooping, he jostled the rogue awake and claimed a little over two hours’ rest himself, before the baying of another hound tore him from sleep. “Could be a coincidence,” the elf remarked. “A poacher, maybe...or a wild dog,” he suggested, sounding dubious.

Carver stifled a yawn, flexing his left hand; the sting of his wound helped to clear his mind from the all-too-brief sleep he’d managed to snatch. “Do you really want to risk it, Paq?”

The rogue’s eyes glowed in the moonlight. “How far’s home, Hawkeye?” Another bark sounded in the distance, and those backlit orbs narrowed to slits.

“Not sure,” Carver replied, closing his eyes to picture the route back to Lothering. “We’ve been heading Northeast for a day, and Lothering was Northwest of where we ran off from, I think.” He tried swallowing, but his tongue felt like sand. “We should be able to make the Drakon River before sunrise if we push on, though.”

Paquis nodded, his ears twitching. “We’d better get to it, then.” He slid down the treetrunk as silently as a spirit, and took the hilt of Carver’s greatblade before the warrior himself scrambled off of his perch.

Not far away, they stumbled over a small stream in the forest, which let the parched men slake their thirst for the first time in a whole day. Thus revivified, the pair made good time Northward in the darkness. Nothing more ominous than crickets sounded for a few hours as they tracked through rough country, and the lull allowed Carver to hope that they’d been written off. Just when he was about to remark upon their good fortune, however, a howl sounded from far behind them. The warrior’s heart sank, and he hardly needed Paquis’ scream of “Run!”

Carver put his boots to the test, breaking through thick underbrush which tore at his trousers and left gouges in his arms. Somehow he kept hold of his sword and avoided tripping, even as the trees grew thicker around him and the ground sloped gently downward. Adrenaline kept his legs working and instinct guided his feet, though he could hear cursing from not too far behind him. The treeline broke suddenly, and Carver very nearly ran into Paquis, who’d stopped short just a couple of paces beyond. A hundred metres in front of them, the Drakon River swept placidly by; a hundred metres past that, though he couldn’t see it, Carver knew that the West Road of the Imperial Highway rose up from the ground. Unfortunately for the deserters, an armoured man with a crossbow stood not fifty metres away, blocking their exit.

“Where d’you boys think you’re goin’, now?” Even in the purple pre-dawn, Carver could see the end of a bolt glinting as the man leveled his crossbow at them. “And in all this hurry, too.” He shook his head, almost sympathetically.

“Fuck off, shem,” Paquis shot back. “Get out of our way, and we’ll let you live.” Carver’s stomach knotted; killing darkspawn was one thing, but he didn’t know if he could bring himself to slay a fellow soldier, especially for doing his duty.

The man clucked his tongue. “Now, now, knife-ear. Is that any way to greet the man what’s come to take you home?”

The elf growled, moving more quickly than Carver would have thought possible, given their ordeal. Paquis lurched into a forward roll, drawing his daggers as he went. “Get the dog!” He yelled, and before Carver could consciously process the command, he was turning away from his friend, toward the mabari who’d finally caught up with them.

New life poured into the warrior’s muscles, borne of fear and sheer desperation. This dog was a bit smaller and less ferocious than the Ash Warrior hounds, but it was formidable, nonetheless. Carver had learnt his lesson well, however, and he kept his blade raised until the mabari leapt. With a scream of his own to match the canine’s bark, Carver cleaved into the beast’s shoulder, and felt a shower of hot blood spray across his face. He didn’t have time to exult in his victory, though; just a moment later, another soldier emerged from the trees, unshouldering a waraxe.

“Gonna gut you, sodding coward,” the man spat, and Carver realised that this was the source of the curses he’d heard before. “Just like Minch over there’s guttin’ your knife-eared bitch.”

Carver’s jaw set; he could hear blades ringing and grunts sounding behind him, but he dare not turn to see how his friend fared. “Yeah,” he grunted with laboured breath, raising his bloodied sword again. “Go ahead and gut me then, ugly.”

His assailant grimaced, hefting the axe. “That’s what your mam’s gonna say, you prick,” he taunted. “Just before I split her open.”

A sudden rage burnt white in Carver’s nerves, but rather than take the bait, he forced himself to sneer. “I’m ready and waiting,” he spat. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” His heart thudded in his ears, nearly as loudly as a sharp cry which sounded from behind him, but still the warrior kept his eyes on the axe-wielding man. Carver wasn’t disappointed; with a bellow, the man swung, putting all of his might into a downstroke. Carver danced sideways and lashed out, but his greatblade slid across the bastard’s scalemail with bruising force, rather than cutting. Carver had to cede ground when his assailant bulled forward and brought the waraxe up for another swing. A parry barely deflected the strike, and Carver stepped back again, trying to catch his breath.

“What’s the matter, weakling?” The axe-wielder barked a laugh when Carver rolled sideways. “Tryin’ to tire me out so’s I can’t fuck your old bitch of a mother to death?”

Flashes of his mother and sisters crossed Carver’s mind, images of them slaughtered by darkspawn or by Loghain’s men. Instead of anger, however, a cold certainty settled over him. He knew what he had to do. “No,” he called back, through gritted teeth. “I’m gonna put you down.” Before the soldier could muster a reply, Carver rushed him, sidestepping the axe’s shaft and spinning in a near-full circle. His greatblade skipped off of the man’s shoulder, seeking the joint of his helm, and another fount of blood sprayed the young warrior as the edge struck home. The soldier fell with a gurgled cry of surprise, nearly yanking Carver’s sword from his grip, but the deserter levered his greatblade from the dying man’s throat.

Carver felt his stomach clench when he recovered his senses enough to taste the man’s blood on his lips. He spat as much as his parched mouth could allow, but his legs felt weak as the enormity of his circumstance sunk in; not only had Carver run from the army, but he’d now killed the man sent to fetch him back. “Oh, Maker,” he breathed, wiping the gore from his face as best he could. A low-pitched groan from behind drew the warrior’s attention, and when he turned, his knees nearly buckled. “Paq!”

The elf knelt beside his own opponent; a crossbow bolt stuck out from the right side of his chest, but the crossbow-wielding soldier had several dagger-holes in his throat and sides. “How’s it feel, Hawkeye?” The rogue’s voice bubbled with the blood in his lung.

“Let’s get you across the river,” Carver said, panic edging into his tone. “Then we can talk about...whatever you want.”

“Doubt it,” Paquis countered, with a wet cough. “I’d just...slow you down.”

“Paq...” Carver swallowed, grimacing at the rusted-iron taste of blood still on his tongue. “It’s my fault they came so hard,” he pointed out. “If I hadn’t followed you, you could’ve gotten enough of a head start to slip away.”

The rogue gave a one-armed shrug. “Maybe,” he considered. “But I ain’t...” He coughed again, wiping a smear of his own blood from his chin. “Ain’t got no sisters waiting for me to save ‘em,” he insisted. With a grunt, the elf brought himself to his feet. “Together, we’re both dead,” Paquis asserted. “If I can hold the next bastards off, there’s a chance you’ll make it.”

The warrior wanted to shake his head, but instead he held out his hand. “You’ve been the only real friend I’ve had,” Carver admitted, clasping Paquis’ forearm gingerly. “For a long time.”

Paquis inclined his head. “Go, then,” he said. “And don’t say I never did you any favours.” When Carver hesitated, the elf cracked a smirk. “It’s been nice knowin’ you, kid. Name one of your children after me.” His breaths were more laboured, now, and the rogue’s eyes glinted oddly.

Carver swallowed once more and brushed past his friend. He didn’t trust himself to look back as he waded into the lazy, frigid current of the river. The water came up to his armpits, and he had to hold his fluted sword above his head to keep it from getting drenched. The warrior’s left arm throbbed as he held it above his head, but he paid the sensation no mind, too distracted by the chill of the water and the fatigue of his flight. He crossed the West Road in the pink light of dawn and kept walking. He dared not stop even in the heat of the day, when he felt the first shivers of fever; instead, Carver redoubled his pace through the rough country, not even pausing to drink. Near dusk, the warrior found himself in familiar country, and it took him a scant hour to stumble his way back to the modest homestead his father had built.

Bethany’s mabari barked excitedly and bounded toward the man, but in Carver’s near-delirium, he mistook the dog for another hunter from the army. Hunger, pain, and exhaustion stole the force from Carver’s pre-emptive assault, however. His legs finally gave out after a single swing of his sword, and he watched, enthralled, as the stars above him slowly faded into nothing at all.


	3. Uneven Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm's only son returns to his family's homestead and gets nursed back to health, while his sisters deal with the increasing threat posed by Ferelden's political chaos. They decide to make a break for Kirkwall, their mother's birthplace, but can they escape the impending horde?

When her hound’s ears pricked up, Bethany looked up from the old codex she’d inherited from her father. “What is it, Barcus?” She’d fallen in love with the dog the moment her brother had given him to her, two years previously, when they were both still so devastated by the loss of their father. The pup’s name had been a jest, playing upon the appellation of their maternal grandfather, Marcus Amell. Ever since Barcus had imprinted on the girl, they’d been nigh inseparable; before he’d run off South to Ostagar, Carver would often tease her that she could tell what the dog was thinking even three rooms away. Now more than ever, the jest seemed apt. The mage could positively feel the anxiety rolling off of her hound, and he threw her a look that sent a chill running up her spine. “Is someone coming?”

In answer, the canine bolted to the door and scratched at it, clearly distressed. He did not bark, however, which kept Bethany and her mother from succumbing to terror. Gathering her nerves, the mage put down her book and crossed the room, unlatching the door. Before she could open it properly, Barcus bulled past the wooden barrier and ran out into the yard. Then he barked, once; not a note of warning, but of surprise and joy and not a little bit of concern. Frowning, Bethany concentrated her mana as best she could without her stave, and she stepped onto the moonlit grass just in time to see the flash of a sword and a figure collapsing to the ground. When Barcus planted himself firmly beside the man and looked back at her, a whine cutting across the distance, Bethany felt her heart hitch a half-beat faster. Ignoring her mother’s query, the mage closed the distance to her hound; when she caught sight of the supine man, she felt her breath flee her lungs as though she’d been struck, and when she heard the fever burning in his voice, Bethany’s legs folded beneath her, and she found herself stroking her brother’s sweating face. He babbled, bright blue eyes unseeing, and Bethany felt at once relieved and terribly afraid.

Heavy footfalls behind her signalled the presence of her elder sister, Cethlenn. “What’s going on here? Who is that?”

The younger mage glanced over her shoulder, and saw that Cethlenn wielded their father’s powerful staff, carved with his own hands and imbued with years of dedicated spellwork. “It’s...Carver,” Bethany breathed, shifting back so that Cethlenn could better see. “He has a fever, I think,” she added, numbly.

“Andraste’s knickers, girl,” the eldest Hawke sibling exclaimed. “Let’s get him inside!”

Her sister’s words spurred Bethany from her shock, and she moved to Carver’s far side. “Help me,” she pleaded, grasping her brother’s left arm. “I don’t think I can pick him up.”

“Paq...got to...find...” Carver’s voice was alarmingly weak. “Go...back,” he grunted, and he pulled at Bethany’s grip with surprising strength.

“We’ll find your pack later,” Bethany promised, brushing his slick hair back from his forehead. Cethlenn took his right arm, and together they managed to get the near-delirious warrior onto his feet. His weight would have been too much for Bethany on her own, but with her sister’s help, she managed to bring Carver into the house. He came willingly enough, despite his ramblings.

Their mother waited for them in the main room, a cleaver held warily by her side. When she caught sight of her son, however, the blade clattered to the floor as she rushed across the room. “Oh, my boy!” Her arms seemed thrice their normal length, and Bethany found herself half-crushed by one of them as the older woman enveloped all three of her children in a fierce hug.

The contact and warmth of the room seemed to bring Carver back to his senses, at least a bit. “Mother...” Bethany couldn’t see his grimace, but she heard it in his tone. “I...” And then he slumped, nearly dragging his sisters to the floor.

“We’ve got to lie him down,” Cethlenn insisted, taking charge yet again, as had become her custom these past three years. The eldest Hawke sibling had perhaps been affected most of all by their father’s sudden death, but Bethany could never tell whether she took her father’s mantle out of duty or desire.

“Maker’s breath,” Leandra sighed, when they’d hobbled into the siblings’ crowded bunkroom. “I’ll get him some water.”

Carver murmured again as they laid him down, but before Bethany could counsel him to try and sleep, she saw his eyes clear. “My sword,” he insisted, looking from her to Cethlenn. “Bring it...please.”

Cethlenn hesitated for a heartbeat, but then nodded, and left them without a further word. Suddenly alone with her twin brother, Bethany’s brows knitted, and she set to work probing Carver with her magic. He was too ill and exhausted to object, as he’d so often done when Bethany tried to put her lessons with her father into practice. Malcolm Hawke had done his best to mentor both of his magical daughters, despite the great disparity in all of their affinities; Malcolm himself was a master at telekinesis and electricity, while Cethlenn excelled at manipulating arcane energy, and Bethany could summon fire for as long as she could remember. Both of the Hawke sisters had undertaken studies in healing, however, as that was the art most likely to earn a stranger’s gratitude in a pinch. Bethany felt grateful for those efforts now, as her mana coursed through Carver’s flesh. Through the connection, she felt Carver’s fever burning in her own veins, his thirst clawing at the inside of her throat, and his stomach so empty that it was nearly at the point of devouring itself. She drew back with a gasp, sinking down into her own narrow bed, just as her mother returned.

Leandra carried a pitcher of water and a clay cup, already filled to the brim. “Drink now, son,” she whispered, holding the cup to Carver’s lips. Instinct drove him to pull greedily at the liquid, and Bethany watched him consume three cupfuls with hardly a breath between each. The elder woman cast Bethany a sobering glance. “Can you heal him, darling?”

The mage gathered her long curls into a tail. “I will try, Mother,” she vowed, gathering her magic about her once more. “You should try to sleep, Carver,” she told her brother, placing one hand at the wrist of his wounded arm and the other at his shoulder. He hissed and jerked when Bethany’s mana suffused the bitten flesh, but her grip held fast, and the mage did not stop until the warrior’s arm was whole again. Her gaze met his eyes, brilliant blue and still shining with fever, and her breath caught. “Rest,” she said at last, rising from his side. “I’ll brew up a potion.” He only nodded, and as Bethany left him with their mother, she breathed a silent prayer that the fever hadn’t stolen the man’s wits.

The house was not large, and the main room functioned for cooking, cleaning, eating, and relaxing. Bethany found Cethlenn sitting on the bench by the books, running a damp cloth over an enormous sword. The cloth had been off-white, but now it was stained a deep, rusted brown. Bethany shivered and moved to the cooking alcove, gathering a small cauldron and some elfroot and other herbs. A large pitcher held just enough water to brew a restorative tea, and the young mage set to work, bringing the stove to life with a brush of her mana.

“How is he?” The question was far more tentative than Bethany had come to expect from her sister, but she found herself grateful.

“He’s not raving,” she told the cauldron, her own voice low. “But the fever’s set in, and he’s not eaten in days.”

“We’ll have to move him, then,” Cethlenn observed. “It appears we’re all fugitives, now.”

Bethany’s throat thickened around a sob that would not come. “We’re...going to have to run again, aren’t we?” The Hawkes had called Lothering their home for twelve years, since she and Carver were six years old, and the farm they tended was as much of a home as the twins had ever known.

A sigh sounded behind her. “We will,” Cethlenn confirmed, and Bethany heard the heavy sword settle on the floor. “Even if nobody comes snooping around for him, he must’ve run away for a reason,” the elder sibling intoned, ominously. “Either he lost his nerve, or...”

“Or we’ve lost the war,” Bethany finished, a new terror thrilling through her nerves. She swallowed hard, concentrating her mana in the simmering water to mix the potion’s ingredients more quickly. “Maker preserve us,” she lamented, sharing a long look with her sister as she poured the steeping solution into the pitcher.

Carver was already half-asleep, muttering about his pack once more, but too weak to rouse himself. Their mother helped Bethany serve him up a measure of the tea, and when he’d imbibed the cupful, he settled back onto the bed more easily. “I’ll sit with him,” Bethany offered.

“Thank you, darling,” Leandra sighed, still looking worried. “I could hardly get a coherent word from him, but I expect he’ll be hungry when he wakes.”

If he wakes, Bethany thought, treacherously. Still, she nodded. “I’ll wake him in half an hour to finish the potion, and that should take him into tomorrow...but he does need to eat, to get some strength back.”

The older woman nodded. “I’ll fix some porridge that’ll stand the night,” she pronounced, and disappeared.

Bethany settled down on her bed, watching her brother’s chest rise and fall. She took comfort in the fact that his breaths came easily; she’d sensed nothing amiss in his lungs, so he was unlikely to become pneumonic. A weight shifted beside her, and the mage laid her hand on Barcus’ strong neck without turning her attention from Carver. “Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls,” Bethany breathed to herself. “From these emerald waters doth life begin anew. Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you.” Her eyes closed as she intoned the eleventh verse of the fourteenth strophe of the Canticle of Andraste. “In my arms lies Eternity.” The Prophet’s words echoed through the ages, helping to still the fears which threatened to overwhelm her.

At the appointed time, Bethany woke Carver with a subtle brush of her mana, wary of the warrior lashing out. He stirred, fitfully, before opening his eyes, so different from her own amber-coloured orbs. “...Beth?” He looked around the dim room, blinking. “How did I get here?”

She felt like reflecting the question back at him, but instead, the mage poured him the second draught of the potion she’d brewed. “That doesn’t matter now, Carver,” she allowed, warming the liquid again with a touch of her magic. “Take this, and try to sleep the night through. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, when you’re feeling better.” Bethany helped him down the herbal infusion, whispering more encouragement for him to rest. When he’d downed the lot, Carver fell back into a semblance of sleep, and Bethany returned to watching him for what felt like another hour before the excitement of the evening---along with the labours of the day---caught up with her.

Shooing Barcus off of her pallet, Bethany settled down for an uneven night. Carver cried out on occasion, and once the mage woke up enough to see their mother worrying at his side, stroking a cool cloth over his forehead.

The next morning made her more hopeful, however; her brother was still a touch feverish, and weak with hunger, but a couple of days’ rest would see him back on his feet. With a couple of proper meals, Carver became lucid enough to agree with Cethlenn’s assessment that he’d need to hide, at least until he’d recovered fully. Cethlenn reported that the last of Bann Ceorlic’s levies had left Lothering to the templars’ devices, which would make it nearly impossible for anyone but their mother to get any supplies they might need...and there were already rumours of a pressgang forming to round up able-bodied men. Thus Carver took up residence in the hidden cellar of their modest barn, where Bethany and Cethlenn had often taken refuge whenever they’d had cause to suspect uninvited guests.

The fourth morning of Carver’s convalescence, the family’s precaution proved apt, for Barcus alerted the magical sisters to an unfamiliar presence on their property. Cethlenn took the lead, but Bethany followed close behind, gripping her own knotwood stave, her mabari a hand’s breadth from her hip. Three strangers stood a dozen paces from the Hawkes’ front door.

“Leave,” Cethlenn commanded, planting her finely-carved staff firmly beside her. The lower foot of the shaft was sheathed in steel, while the top bore an intricate carving of an angelic figure which their father had claimed to be Andraste...yet Bethany suspected that the man’s inspiration struck closer to home, for she couldn’t help thinking of her mother, whenever she inspected the idol. In any case, the staff was hardly passable as a walking stick, though the eldest of Malcolm Hawke’s children did not seem disposed to hide at present; even the templars had quit the village, carting off as many refugees as they could take with them. “You are not welcome here,” she insisted.

The middle man, shorter than the rest but unquestionably the one in charge, stepped forward. His eyes were distant, and his receding hairline gave him a wolfish look, but he spoke in a neutral tone. “We’re just on the teyrn’s business, lass,” he said, holding his palms face-up in a gesture of peace. “You mayn’t have heard, but them Grey Wardens’ve turned their cloaks on good King Cailan and left him for dead, along with half his army. We’ll be needin’ more men to put under arms, is all.”

Bethany’s eyes narrowed; from what little Carver had spoken of his reasons for deserting, she’d gotten the distinct impression that this man’s tale was unlikely. “There haven’t been any men in this house since Father died,” she replied, before her sister could antagonize the man or his companions. She noticed the leader’s eyes flicker down to her dog and felt her heart sink.

“Fine hound,” the man remarked, casually. “Lost a great many like him at Ostagar.” The beast’s low growl had him chuckling, oddly enough, and those dull eyes rose up to Cethlenn once more. “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to release him to us?” It was well-known in Ferelden that once a mabari was imprinted on a human, it would obey no one else while that human still lived and wished to maintain the connection.

Cethlenn gave her sibling a sidelong glance. “He’s your mutt, Beth,” she pointed out. “What say you?”

The younger mage could not hide her distaste. “No, sers,” she allowed, gripping her stave with her right hand and lifting her left into the air. A ball of flame took shape in the bowl made by her fingers, which caused the intruders to gasp and step back. “And I would suggest that you take my sister’s advice. Leave this place.”

The leader of the band-of-three looked at the siblings in a new light, and Bethany was ashamed at herself for the sudden fear behind his once-lifeless eyes. He stepped backward, his hands much closer to his weapons. “We were just goin’,” he said evenly, and jerked his head at his companions.

Bethany and Cethlenn watched until the strangers had disappeared, before the elder sister breathed a sigh. “Maker’s breath, Bethany,” the woman half-scolded, but when the younger mage looked up, she caught the pride in her sister’s expression.

“No one threatens my dog,” Bethany claimed, defensively. Or my brother, a small voice added in the back of her mind, but she had the good sense not to air the thought aloud. “Do you think they’ll be back?”

Cethlenn’s face fell into shadow. “Possibly,” she conceded. “Let’s get back inside.”

With a nod, Bethany followed her sister into the house, where their mother was still at work making enough foodstuffs for their journey North. Carver had apprised them of the army’s retreat and the need to get as far away from the darkspawn as possible, and gathering supplies enough for the trip to the port town of West Hill had taken much of their time. Leandra paused in her labours to throw a concerned glance to her children. “What was that?”

“Trouble,” Cethlenn announced. “Are we ready?”

“No,” Leandra lamented. “But...we haven’t much choice, I fear. The very earth is dying beneath our feet.”

It was true; they’d all noticed the yellowing grass the day before, and now the bank of dark clouds which had plagued the Southern horizon for so long was spreading their way. If the family didn’t move soon, it might well be too late to outrun what was coming for them. “We’ll have to make do with what we’ve got,” Bethany suggested.

Her mother nodded. “Go make sure your brother’s feeling up for it,” she advised. “Your sister and I will do what we can, and meet you by the barn.”

Bethany acquiesced readily, a different sort of numbness settling over her as she emerged into the weak light of late morning once again, through the house’s back door. The sight of the unharvested vegetables and the bleating of the goats that they would have to abandon were almost enough to penetrate her inner fog, but Bethany did not linger in the yard for more than a moment. Instead, she sought the cellar where Carver had taken up residence for nearly a week.

Her brother did not sit idle in the dim room; as soon as he’d felt strong enough, he fell to the drills he’d learnt in the army. At the moment, he was pushing himself up from the ground and lowering himself back down again. When Bethany paused at the bottom of the steps, she counted five such motions before he ceased and climbed to his feet. “It’s time to go,” she ventured, her brows knitting. “Do you think you’re up for it?”

Carver took a long breath and inclined his head. “We should’ve left before now,” he said. “I’m sorry I’ve held us back, Beth.”

The mage shrugged, glancing back up the stairs. She couldn’t hear the others quite yet. “We wouldn’t’ve known to run if not for you,” Bethany pointed out. A curious thought struck her, and she turned back to Carver. “What was in your pack that you wanted to go back for?”

The warrior paused partway through the process of donning the sleeveless, padded shirt he’d worn on the night of his arrival. “...My pack?” His brow arched for a moment, before his features smoothed, a shadow falling over his face. “Not ‘pack’,” he corrected, his voice barely above a whisper. “‘Paq’, short for ‘Paquis’. He was an elf I met in the army.” Carver turned away, fastening the buckles on his shirt in a silence which spoke volumes.

Bethany busied herself with checking the flask and dagger she kept at the small of her back, unwilling to press the subject further. When she was certain that the blade was sharp and the flask filled to the brim with lyrium, the mage replaced them and hefted her stave. “We should wait for Mother and Ceth upstairs,” she said at last, just as Carver retrieved that enormous blade he’d brought with him from Ostagar.

The warrior nodded, and followed Bethany up the steps and into the barn where they kept the goats’ feed, and the animals themselves in foul weather. The siblings were not long in waiting, for the two older Hawkes arrived at the building’s gate only a few moments after the twins emerged from the cellar. Leandra and Cethlenn both carried two packs each, and another was strapped securely to Barcus’ back.

“One of you will have to double up,” Carver allowed, breaking his sullen silence. “This is enough weight for me,” he added, lifting the point of his greatblade.

Bethany saw her sister nod. “Take Mother’s extra, Beth,” Cethlenn instructed.

Leandra spoke up. “Will we really see them, do you think?”

“I pray not,” Carver replied. “But I don’t want to take any chances.”

“Then you should take your sister’s extra burden, Bethany,” Leandra insisted. “If it comes to that, all three of you may need to fight.”

Bethany saw her sister hesitate, but then she nodded. “Very well,” the elder mage acceded, handing Bethany one of the packs. “Now, we really should go.”

No one had any arguments. The four humans and their mabari struck out Northward, away from the nearly abandoned village that had served as their home. Soon enough, though, Bethany’s veil of numbness was punctured by a stab of foreboding, for every step North seemed to drain more of the colour from the ground and sky around them. Dead grass was already bleached a sickly yellow, and the few trees near their path had lost the leaves which normally graced them so lushly in the summer months. The young mage was just about to voice her uncertainty in their course when Barcus let out a snarl and Carver stopped short. And then she saw the monster, scrambling over the bare countryside from the East. From a distance it looked something like a man, though after a heartbeat, Bethany saw its face resolve into a pale death’s head with milky eyes and a rictus grin. There was nothing in its expression but hunger, and it led three of its fellows, closing in on them alarmingly quickly.

“There’s a gully up ahead,” Carver observed as he vaulted himself up the bank. “I’ll meet you there. Run!” Bethany’s heart stopped for the space of a breath as she watched him charge, alone, straight for the squad of tainted beasts.

Cethlenn jostled her sister with the end of her staff. “You heard him!” Then she took off, half-dragging their mother, and leaving Bethany torn. After a moment, Barcus whoofed at her, and she took off after her sister down the twisting path. The banks around them deepened and shadows played in the recesses of rock, owing to the black bands of clouds which streaked the sky.

It was here that Bethany halted, sounds of clashing metal and grunting sounding in the distance. “We should wait for Carver,” she insisted, her voice fraught with worry.

Cethlenn threw her a glare. “If we linger, we may die,” she pointed out.

Bethany thought to argue, but an alarmed bark drew her attention, and she turned in time to see a pair of those human-like monsters rushing up the path that her family had just taken. Barcus growled, and a sudden anger welled up within the young mage; without conscious thought, she gathered a hefty ball of flame about her fist and flung it at the assailants. When it hit the first one, Bethany fed the fire more of her mana, and it exploded to fill the gap in the rocks with flame. Shocked, Bethany looked from her outstretched hand to the pair of burning darkspawn that her spell had killed. Excitement tinged the fear and rage brought about by circumstance...it was the first time that Bethany had used her magic so openly, and to such great effect.

Already, however, another knot of three beasts gathered behind the licking flames, looking positively murderous. The sight of the monsters, coupled with the sensation of Cethlenn’s mana discharging behind her, threatened to drive Bethany to despair. “A little help?” Called the eldest of Leandra’s children, in between firing bolts of spirit energy.

Bethany turned to see that her sister was dangerously close to a pair of tall darkspawn, alternatively striking out and then blasting with her staff to keep them at bay. Their mother cowered in an alcove by a boulder, praying and weeping openly. The younger mage channeled her mana through her own stave, sending globs of fire at one of the darkspawn confronting Cethlenn---each strike was much weaker than the one she’d hurled a few moments before, but she could sustain a fairly rapid salvo, and in a few heartbeats she’d drawn the monster’s attention. By the time it reached her, the fiend had been so weakened by her and her sister’s assault that it only took a couple of solid thwacks with her stave to see it fall.

At the height of her victory, a grotesque cry sounded from behind Bethany, and she realized an instant too late that the wall of fire behind her had flickered and faded to nothing. She twisted and lunged backward, only just managing to avoid the swipe of a blackened sword. A scream tore through her lungs as she fell, and she threw up her arms, her heart racing away in her chest.

A shadow crossed over her as the nearest darkspawn drew nearer, yet just before it renewed its attack, Bethany saw an enormous steel blade sprout from its right shoulder. In half a heartbeat, the sword had cleaved the monster in two, and a geyser of black ichor fountained over Bethany’s legs even as she scrambled backward. Fueled by adrenaline, she managed to regain her feet, only to see her brother dispatch the remaining two fiends with similar efficiency. When he turned to look upon her, the mage saw the same distance in his expression that she’d spied in the leader of the band that had prompted their flight. Carver blinked, though, and it was gone. “Are you alright, Beth?”

She swallowed and nodded, after a moment. “You?” His arms and chest were covered in black streaks.

The warrior shrugged. “Been better, but I’ve been worse, too.” He looked back over his shoulder. “There’s smoke rising up from the village,” he pointed out, “so we’ve got to keep moving.

Bethany led the way to Cethlenn and their mother. “Maker, we’ve lost it all,” Leandra lamented. “Everything your father and I built.” Of all of them, only she and Barcus were free of the corrupted blood. Bethany hoped that none of them would fall prey to it.

“The important thing is that we stick together,” Cethlenn insisted, throwing Carver an angry look. “No more running off to be the hero.”

When her brother looked to argue, Bethany broke in. “I agree,” she insisted, trying to ignore the hurt in Carver’s eyes. “And we should keep going...all the way to Kirkwall, Mother. We’ll build a new life there.” Neither she nor Cethlenn had been thrilled at the suggestion, knowing---as every apostate east of Val Royeaux knew---that the City of Chains boasted the nexus of templar power in Eastern Thedas. Yet their mother had been born there, and she claimed that they still had family and claim to an estate, which might mean they’d have coin and influence enough to keep the magical siblings at liberty.

“If we make it that far,” Carver interjected, grimacing.

Bethany’s eyebrows lowered. “Well, let’s not stand around to remove all doubt.” With that, she set off up the path, climbing a steep hill. Barcus stayed beside her, and the others were not long in following. Another clutch of darkspawn awaited them at the top, but the three siblings worked together to cut them down, with Carver trading blows while his sisters rained spells down upon the fiends. The fight soon spilled around a bend, and the Hawke siblings managed to rescue another pair of refugees who’d fared somewhat worse in their flight thus far.

As the fiends lay twitching around them and Bethany caught her breath, she noticed the silver gleam of the strange man’s armour. He clutched his right arm with his left hand, so she couldn’t quite see the pattern of his breastplate, but the woman accompanying him had taken up his shield, which bore an unmistakable flaming sword. “Well, the Maker has a sense of humour,” she spat, glancing at the carnage around her. “The darkspawn, and now a templar.”

That drew the man’s attention, and she saw his eyes flitting from the stave in her hands to her face. “Apostate,” he called with a sneer to rival her own. “Keep your distance.” He moved to step forward, but both Cethlenn and Carver closed ranks in front of him. “The ‘spawn are clear in their intent,” he continued, over his companion’s pleas. “But the mage is always unknown. The Order dictates...”

The orange-haired woman spoke up again. “Wesley...” When the man looked to argue further, she pressed on. “Dear, they saved us. The Maker understands.”

All at once, the fight left the templar’s expression, and he looked almost despondent. “Of course,” he mumbled, glancing away.

“I’m Aveline Vallen,” the woman said, curtly. “This is my husband, Ser Wesley. We can hate one another when we’re out of danger.” Her eyes fell upon Cethlenn, who’d taken a half-step ahead of her brother.

The elder mage tilted her head. “I thought the templars had all abandoned Lothering,” she wondered, and Bethany felt grateful that their names weren’t forthcoming to the templar and his warrior of a wife.

“I was coming from Denerim, on business for the Order,” Wesley explained. “By the time I heard news of the battle, I’d feared I was too late...”

Despite the flecks of black blood on her face, Aveline’s gratitude shone through her smile. “I was a lieutenant in King Cailan’s army,” she added. “Only a dozen of us survived the slaughter.”

Carver spoke up, sounding slightly panicked. “We should move on, if we want this half-dozen to survive.”

Aveline hesitated for a heartbeat, but then sighed. “North is cut off,” she admitted. “We barely escaped the main body of the horde. They’re circling around from the East.”

“And Lake Calenhad is to the West,” Bethany breathed. “Which leaves us with one direction.”

Her brother barked a laugh. “The Wilds are to the South,” he pointed out. “That’s no way out!”

Though she was still behind her sister, Bethany could positively feel the older mage rolling her eyes. “If our options are South or die,” she snarked, already sidestepping Aveline, “I’m choosing South.”

With that, the newly-enlarged group came into some semblance of order, with Carver and Cethlenn taking point at the front after Aveline volunteered to act as rearguard. Bethany stayed close to her mother, who in turn kept company with the wounded templar; though she’d lived with three apostates for more than a dozen years, Leandra still had impeccable manners. The darkspawn swarmed them three more times, and Bethany couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being herded, since during each skirmish, the party would come to a fork in the path...and there was always less resistance down the fork more likely to take them West, and then South.

Eventually, the trail they’d been forced to take lifted once more, and the refugees found themselves upon a plateau of sorts. The sun was preparing to set to the right of them, and it had been more than an hour since they’d seen any more darkspawn. Bethany was just about to suggest that they take a rest to gather their strength, when she felt the earth beneath her feet begin to tremble. Her heart sank when she saw that Aveline and Carver both readied their weapons at once, but the suspense didn’t last overlong. With thundering footfalls, the most hideous beast Bethany had ever seen ascended one of the paths leading to the flat ground the party had claimed.

The monster was simply enormous, shaped similarly to the darkspawn they’d thus far encountered, except that it stood more than a dozen feet high, with pale-purple flesh and a pair of twisted horns. It seemed almost graceful as it leapt, closing the distance in a single jump. The ground shook violently when it landed, sending Carver, Leandra, and Wesley off of their feet. Bethany’s grip faltered upon her stave when the beast’s relatively tiny eyes fixed upon her mother, and the instinct to flee warred with the urge to protect her family. Here lies the abyss, she repeated silently to herself as she drew a deep breath to help gather her mana. “Maker,” Bethany pleaded aloud, “give me strength.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks go to clafount at fanfiction.net for being an excellent beta-reader!


	4. Dragon's Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The refugees must confront loss, even as they are offered salvation by the least likely of sources.

“Cethlenn...” The older woman knelt over the mangled corpse of her daughter, growing more hysterical by the second. “Wake up, darling. The battle’s over...we’re fine!”

Aveline had to bite back a laugh. Fine would hardly be the way she’d describe their condition; after the ogre’s initial charge had scattered them, the short-haired apostate had lunged past her sister, right into the monster’s grasp. Shortly after, they’d been nearly overwhelmed with a couple of waves of hurlocks, which made taking the big bastard down that much more difficult. But they’d done it in the end, Aveline and the boy, with help from the surviving apostate and her dog. With a grunt, Aveline shouldered her husband’s shield and limped over to the grieving woman. “I’m sorry, Miss...” She trailed off for a moment, slightly annoyed that they’d not given their names. “Your daughter is gone.”

The news broke over the woman like a squall, and the soldier had to glance away from her denials and recriminations.

“She gave her life to save us, Mother.” The boy spoke, and Aveline couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that she’d seen him before...but she couldn’t place it. He fought well enough, but he hadn’t been amongst the survivors from the battle, that lucky company who’d stood beside their king in the valley and yet still drew breath.

The boy’s mother shot him a dagger-filled glare. “I don’t want a hero,” she hissed. “I want a my daughter. Your big sister, and my little girl...”

Wesley hobbled nearer, and the sympathy in his eyes nearly broke Aveline’s heart, for she knew what becoming a templar had eventually cost him. “Allow me to commend her soul to the Maker, Mistress,” he intoned. When the woman sat back, he balled his left fist into his breastplate. “Ashes we were,” he recited, “and ashes we become. Maker, give this young woman a place at your side.”

It wasn’t elaborate, but it would serve...and it seemed to make the fact of the matter sink in more deeply for the woman. “I will never forget you,” she vowed, stroking the dead girl’s still face. “Oh, Cethlenn...”

“We should go,” the sister said, her voice filled with a sob. “Ceth wouldn’t want her sacrifice to be meaningless...”

“Our lives would mean more to her than our prayers,” the boy concurred. As one, the two siblings stood, and Aveline shared a quick nod with the boy.

They didn’t make it very far. “Flames,” Aveline swore, drawing her shortsword and unshouldering her shield just as two large groups of darkspawn appeared at different entrances to the plateau. She grimaced, steeling herself. “We’re too late,” she hissed between her teeth, taking a single step forward.

Suddenly, a guttural scream pierced the air behind them, which caused the advancing darkspawn to pause in their tracks. A quick glance over her shoulder nearly stopped Aveline’s heart, for on the rise behind them, a full-fledged dragon stood perched. Of all the sodding...

But when the creature spread its wings and swooped over them, its tongues of flame only splashed over the now-terrified hurlocks. It landed on the still-burning ground, trampling the few ‘spawn who’d survived its initial assault. Snatching a final straggler up into its grip, the dragon began to glow; Aveline readied her shield, for now the monster’s attention would inevitably turn to them. Her throat ran dry as the glowing figure quickly shrunk down and took the form of an ageless-looking woman with stark white hair and form-fitting armour. Aveline’s eyes narrowed as the woman approached.

“Well, well,” the stranger breathed. “What have we here?” Casually, she dropped the half-crushed hurlock. “It used to be we never got visitors to the Wilds,” she said offhandedly, and though Aveline knew they were too far North to truly be in the Korcari Wilds, the comment made the soldier suspicious about the identity of their apparent saviour. “Now,” the woman continued, “it seems they arrive in hordes!”

The boy stepped forward, brandishing his bloodied sword. “Stay back,” he warned. “I won’t let you harm us.” Part of Aveline admired his bravado, but the taunt was foolish and unnecessary, and she would have said so if Wesley hadn’t chosen that moment to lose his footing.

The wild-haired woman threw back her head in a mad cackle. “If I wanted to kill you all, dear boy, I daresay you could not stop me.” She considered them evenly. Then she abruptly turned and began to stroll away. “You should know that if you wish to flee the darkspawn, you are headed in the wrong direction.”

“Wait.” It was the girl who spoke up this time, a bit more tentatively than her brother. “You can’t just leave us here.” Aveline sensed more bravery in the girl than she’d suspected at first.

“Can I not?” The woman paused. “I spotted a most curious sight: a mighty ogre, vanquished,” she pronounced, turning to regard the refugees. “Who could perform such a feat?” Aveline felt the woman’s eyes sweeping over all of them, and she did not appear terribly impressed. “But now my curiosity is sated and you are safe,” the stranger went on. “For the moment. Is that not enough?”

The girl moved to speak again, but her brother took another step forward. “We can get to Kirkwall on our own,” he growled.

“Kirkwall?” Their saviour seemed honestly taken aback for just an instant. “My, but that is quite the voyage you plan. Your teyrn will not miss you, hmm?”

Aveline spied a shadow flickering across the boy’s features, and in an instant she remembered seeing him---he’d wandered across her path back at Ostagar, as part of Loghain’s column for the final battle...which meant that he had no earthly business being here. Her eyes narrowed as he blustered a response. “He certainly missed the king,” the boy spat, “so I don’t care whether or not he misses me.”

“I see,” the woman intoned. “And just how were you planning on getting to Kirkwall, child?”

His sister piped up again. “We were going to take ship,” she breathed. “From West Hill.”

The stranger considered, turning to look North for a few moments, and then Southeast. “Gwaren would be a better choice,” she commented, neutrally.

“We’re pinned in,” the boy exclaimed. “The bloody darkspawn have us trapped! How are we supposed to get to Gwaren or West Hill?”

The old woman fixed him with her stare for nearly a minute, until he settled down into an uncomfortable silence. “Hurtled into the chaos,” she half-chanted, “you fight...and the world will shake before you.” Then she broke off, again turning from them, seemingly to gather her thoughts. Aveline couldn’t hear her mumble over a wet-sounding cough from Wesley, and the soldier’s heart leapt into her throat when she noticed the black tendrils snaking up her husband’s neck from beneath his skin. “It appears fortune smiles on us both today,” their saviour called, more loudly. “I may be able to help you yet.”

The unexpected offer seemed to break the boy’s stubborn resistance. “I...suppose we can take any help we can get,” he mused.

“Maybe we shouldn’t trust her,” the girl pointed out. “We don’t even know what she is.”

Aveline swallowed the lump in her throat, looking from her husband to the woman who now offered them their lives. “I know what she is,” the soldier gruffed. “The Witch of the Wilds.”

“Some call me that,” she admitted. “Also ‘Flemeth’; ‘Asha’bellanar’; ‘an old hag who talks too much’.” A manic light gleamed in her strange eyes. “Does it matter? I offer you this: I will get your group past the horde, to Gwaren, in exchange for a simple delivery to someplace not far out of your way, once you cross the sea.”

The boy appeared hopeful as he looked at Aveline. “Should we trust her?”

Another cough sent a chill down the soldier’s spine. “Wesley’s injured,” she pointed out, unable to admit the truth of it out loud. “We’ll never get past the horde on our own.” As much as she didn’t like the idea of owing her life to a witch, the chance for her and Wesley to live on drove her to swallow her concerns.

“If you need to,” Wesley managed, “leave me behind.”

Aveline had to blink to keep tears from welling up in her eyes. “No,” she hissed. Gallant fool. “I said I’d drag you out of this place if I had to, and I meant it.”

The boy looked to weigh his options for a few breaths. “We have to get to Kirkwall,” he announced. “Before we make this delivery.”

“But you will do it,” Flemeth replied, her tone nearly silken. “There is a clan of Dalish elves that will be camped in the mountains beyond the city,” she informed him, stepping forward. “Deliver this amulet to their Keeper, Marethari,” she said, pronouncing the name distinctly. “Do this thing, and any debt between us is paid in full.” Aveline did not see the boy take up the proffered trinket, distracted by her husband. “There is another matter,” Flemeth continued after a pregnant pause, and the soldier felt the witch’s eyes boring into her back.

Anger flashed over Aveline’s face, and she rose more quickly than she’d meant to, her hand halfway to the hilt of her sword. “You stay away from him,” she growled.

Flemeth fixed her a look of genuine pity, which was a thousand times worse than the hints of madness which had thus far featured in the woman’s gaze. “What has been done to your man,” she breathed, “is within his blood already.”

Aveline’s eyes burned. “You lie!”

“She...she’s right, Aveline,” Wesley groaned from behind her. “I can feel the corruption in my veins.” She could hear the agony beneath his tone. “So much blood...I felt it, when it happened.”

Now even the boy’s eyes had softened. “There must be something we can do to help him.”

“The only cure I know of,” Flemeth offered, somewhat affably, “is to become a Grey Warden.”

“And they all died at Ostagar,” the boy growled, confirming Aveline’s earlier suspicions that he must have been there...and not in the valley, as she’d been.

“Not all,” the witch countered, and Aveline noticed an odd hope cross Carver’s features. “But the last are now beyond your reach,” Flemeth concluded, shaking her head almost wearily.

Her husband called out to her once more. “Aveline...listen to me.” She turned away from the witch and the boy, kneeling beside Wesley. His eyes were turning milky, but she could see the request in them.

“You can’t ask me to do this,” Aveline declared, closing her eyes against the tears which threatened again. “I won’t.”

Wesley drew a ragged breath. “Please,” he begged. “The corruption is a slow death...I can’t...”

Aveline shook her head, her cheeks burning as twin streaks of moisture coursed down them. Before she could muster a response, however, the boy spoke up. “I’m sorry, Aveline,” he ventured. “If there were any other way...”

She couldn’t nod, couldn’t look him in the eye; instead, Aveline gave Wesley one last watery glance and turned away. She shuddered at the sound of a dagger sliding between the joints of her husband’s armour, and swallowed a sob when the dying man actually breathed a word of thanks to his killer. A hand upon her shoulder sent a jolt through Aveline, but she found herself rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but look at the old woman whose fingers graced her frame.

“Without an end,” Flemeth counseled, “there can be no peace.” After a moment, Aveline managed to incline her head, and the witch turned away. “It gets no easier,” she said, setting off at a saunter. “Your struggles have only just begun.”

The witch led the party South in silence, and no more darkspawn harassed them as the sun disappeared behind the Frostbacks. Aveline kept her peace, even as memories of her life with Wesley kept pestering her---of their chance introduction in Dragon’s Peak, when he was a crofter and she little more than a mercenary; of a deepening romance that was the work of years; of her commission as an officer, and his own decision to become a templar, and his regret that that decision had revealed his niece as an apostate and eventually estranged him from his family. Recollecting their small, seaside wedding in Amaranthine brought a bittersweet smile to the soldier’s lips, but it faded when she realized that she’d never share the man’s touch again. The immediate cause of that severance marched at the front of the column, so Aveline allowed herself to drift to the back again. A small voice warned her that the others would think her a coward, but she did not want to care what the boy thought of her. He’d taken her husband; he would not have her dignity.

An hour after sunset, Flemeth ushered them into a small cave. Aveline took up the rear, and she was surprised when the witch followed her in. With a flick of her hand, Flemeth caused a wall of rocks to build itself in the mouth of the cave, sealing them inside; just before the weak starlight was cut off, a campfire spontaneously sparked into life, stinging their eyes with the sudden contrast. Aveline’s brow drew down as she took in the sight of four bedrolls already prepared on the cavern floor. “You knew,” she accused the witch, giving her a cutting glance. “That we would lose two.”

“I saw a possibility,” the woman corrected. “Old Flemeth sees many things, child. Some of them even come to pass.” She looked to the boy, who was already working up an accusation of his own. “You made our bargain of your own free will,” she pronounced. “And believe me when I tell you that as powerful as I am, there is a limit to what I can do...as my Morrigan never ceases to remind me.” The woman leaned against the wall she’d made, a bit rougher than the more naturally-formed rock which surrounded them on all sides. “We will be safe here for tonight. That is all that matters.”

Aveline grunted and threw her weapon and shield away, sinking wearily onto one of the bedrolls. The boy did not rejoin his family; instead, he took a few steps closer to Flemeth, curiosity naked on his face. “You said that some of the Grey Wardens survived,” he remarked. “The battle, I mean.”

Growing curious herself, the soldier observed the exchange, rather than roll over. Her empty stomach would likely keep her from sleeping, in any case. The witch inclined her head. “So I did.”

“Who were they?” The boy’s brows knitted together in concern.

A heartbeat passed, but the woman evidently deigned to answer. “A human lad with more sword than sense, and an elven girl with a bit of magic about her,” she said. “Both quite young, for the task ahead of them.” Her eyes flashed in the firelight, and Aveline fancied that she saw the woman’s pupils turn to slits for the briefest of moments. “How do they concern you?”

The boy swallowed. “I...think I might know them,” he announced. “Did they give you their names?”

“The lad did,” Flemeth confirmed, “before I could stop him. When the lass offered hers, I told her that names were pretty, but useless.”

“Was the man called Alistair?” Hope once more found a home on the black-haired boy’s face. “And did the elf have red eyes?”

Interest turned to fascination in Flemeth’s expression, and she suddenly threw her head back, regaling the cavern with her cackles. “Of course!” She exclaimed, evidently delighted. “Now why didn’t I see this before?”

That gave the boy pause. “...See what?” He ventured.

“Do not trouble yourself, young man,” Flemeth said dismissively, still chuckling. “You and your sister will discover it well enough on your own. I have indulged you enough for one evening.” Then, oddly, her eyes met Aveline’s. “Perhaps you should show your guest more manners. She spoke of ‘we’, even though she does not even know your name.”

The boy had the decency to look abashed, before he bridled again. “I thought you said names were useless.”

“And they are,” Flemeth insisted. “But as long as you’re prattling amongst yourselves, you aren’t distracting me...and seeing as how I’m all that’s standing between you and a hundred thousand darkspawn, you would do well to keep from straining my attentions.”

Cowed, the boy finally turned away, moving to confer with his surviving sister and their mother. Aveline rolled over, trying to sleep despite the hunger clawing at the insides of her ribs, but it was not long before the boy returned.

“I really am sorry,” he mumbled. “About Wesley.” The soldier did not stir at first, half-hoping he would go away, but when he proved more stubborn, she sighed.

Turning to look at him, she saw just how young he was for the first time...likely a decade her junior, or more. “And I’m sorry for your sister,” she managed. “She was called Cethlenn, right?”

He nodded. “Cethlenn Hawke,” he confirmed. “I’m Carver, and that’s my twin sister, Bethany.” The boy looked over his shoulder at the two women huddled by the fire. “Our mother’s called Leandra.”

“Is she an apostate, as well?” The question was harsher than she’d meant to ask, but she would not apologize for it; Wesley wouldn’t have been ashamed of wondering it.

Carver shook his head. “Our father,” he explained. “Malcolm Hawke.” The smile he gave her was a bit forced. “There; you know us, we know you.” He shifted, and she saw that he’d brought a pack with him. “Are you hungry?”

A growl bubbled up from her stomach, stealing Aveline’s denial. Wordlessly, she accepted the bread he offered, along with a hank of dried mutton. The boy settled down across from her and dug into his own ration, and they ate in silence for several long moments. The food and the fire warmed her, and despite her grief, a different concern emerged in Aveline’s thoughts. “Why did you shirk your duty?”

The overtures of friendliness nearly dissolved as Carver’s face fell. “This is my duty,” he replied, glancing at his family. “Getting my kin away from the Blight.” The answer lingered for the space of a breath, before he returned her question. “And you? Why did you run?”

Aveline should have seen it coming, but the implication stung, nonetheless. “I swore my oath to serve the King of Ferelden,” she retorted. “And I nearly died in that service...but I was released from it the moment King Cailan’s heart stopped beating.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’d bet you were a bannerman, though, and you were part of Teyrn Loghain’s detachment.”

She could see the anger and shame brewing just beneath the surface of Carver’s eyes. “What of it?”

“So, your oath was still valid,” she pointed out slowly, as though he were simple. “And you broke it.”

The boy’s voice was haughty, barely below a yell. “What difference does that make?” He crushed the last of his bread. “I’m saving my family,” be reasoned. “Same as you.”

“Yes,” Aveline conceded, her blood heating up. “And we see how well that’s turning out, for both of us.”

Carver looked to reply, but a soft footfall drew his and Aveline’s attention; Flemeth’s mad eyes sharpened upon each of them in turn. “Such discord will get you nowhere,” she counseled. “You have both lost much...and stand to lose more, if you fall prey to envy and mistrust.”

Neither of them had any answer for that. With a hasty excuse, Carver retreated to his sister and mother, leaving Aveline alone on one side of the fire. The witch melted back into the shadows, and the Maker only knew what she got up to. Aveline had survived the battle, while Carver had run from it...at the behest of his superiors, whom he’d then betrayed. Their paths seemed intertwined, but the soldier could not ignore how distinctly they’d begun. Nevertheless, she managed to settle into something like sleep. In a way, she was grateful for the presence of the Hawkes---there was nothing left for her in Ferelden, and if she could see them safely to Kirkwall, perhaps she could eventually forgive herself for Wesley’s death.

The night passed more quickly than Aveline thought possible, for soon enough the witch roused them from their fitful slumber. The world into which they emerged was even more of a wasteland than when they’d taken refuge, and the utter destruction of all life was awful to behold as the party continued its trek South. They spent six days crossing the Hinterlands by day and holing up amongst dying trees by night, though Flemeth stayed true to her promise, and the party avoided any more encounters with the darkspawn until the country grew green around them again.

Once Aveline and the Hawkes reached the Brecilian Passage, Flemeth declared her charity at an end. Reminding Carver of his agreement, she left them to follow the well-logged trail on their own. In another day’s march it led to Gwaren, the village Loghain had helped to save during the Rebellion, and the nominal seat of his power, though it was rumoured he hadn’t set foot in the place for years.

In the village proper, a few patrolling soldiers eyed the refugees warily, and Aveline worried that they’d all be taken for deserters. It became clear that Gwaren had been enjoying a booming trade in shipping off refugees in advance of the darkspawn, however; even before the fall of Ostagar, mere rumours of the Blight were enough to drive a great many Hinterlanders from their homes. Here, Bethany showed her resolve yet again, when she not only negotiated their entry into the village but managed to secure them all space in a hold. Aveline surmised that such bartering and bribing had been necessary skills for an apostate to develop, and she supposed they’d serve the girl well, where they headed---for even if Leandra Hawke’s birthplace held a noblewoman’s welcome for them, Aveline knew enough of Kirkwall’s reputation to understand just how dangerous it could be for a foreign-born apostate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my excellent beta-reader, clafount. You should really check out her stories on fanfic.net!


	5. Refuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hawkes and Aveline find their sanctuary against the ravening beasts of the Blight--but at a higher price than they might have anticipated.

After Aveline stopped answering his offers to talk with more than a grunt, Carver had discussed his speculations about Athadra with his sister and mother. The so-called Witch of the Wilds hadn’t exactly confirmed them, and the warrior had gotten the distinct impression that further needling wouldn’t be entirely wise. Leandra was still too devastated by Cethlenn’s sudden death to offer much in the way of assurance, but Bethany seemed convinced that if the witch’s words proved true, there stood a good chance that their childhood friend yet drew breath.

Of course, it was unlikely that they would ever see the elf again, even if she somehow managed to survive the accusations of treason which she would face, since the Hawkes had booked passage to the Free Marches. Further conversation, on any topic, proved impossible by the second day of the voyage; the ship’s hold soon reeked of vomit and other effluent borne from rough seas, and there was hardly room for anyone to move, so tightly were the refugees packed. Eleven more days passed with heavy rain and high waves, and by the time the undersized but overstuffed carrack limped into Kirkwall’s harbour, it was truly a miracle that none of the Hawkes nor Aveline had died of sheer seasickness.

Carver helped his mother and sister up out of the hold onto the deck of the ship, and gratefully took the hilt of his sword when Aveline silently offered it to him, before she made her own ascent up onto the deck. He still had nowhere to put the blade at rest, and so he carried it point-down to keep from arousing the wrong kind of attention. The warrior saw his mother hand over most of their coin to the seaman set to guard the ramp, and the family managed to plant their feet on dry ground after more than two weeks asea.

“Thank the Maker!” Bethany exclaimed, leaning heavily upon her staff. It had been Cethlenn’s, and their father’s beforehand. She hadn’t wanted to take it from their sister’s corpse, but it was more powerful than her old stave; even so, it had taken their mother reminding her of how their father’s hands had shaped the staff for Bethany to take it up. With her free hand, the mage ruffled her hair, now cut much shorter than it had been for most of her life. The ship’s captain had offered to take the onyx locks in lieu of a handful of silvers, and the young woman hadn’t hesitated. Carver saw the change clearly now for the first time; he was reminded, more than anything, of their now-dead sibling---Cethlenn’s hair was often wild, and had hardly ever crept past her ears.

Aveline rolled her shoulders and stepped in front of them. Carver blinked and glanced away from his sister, only to close his eyes against the light which reflected off of the templar shield which Aveline still carried---she’d offered to surrender it in Gwaren for Bethany’s sake, and for her own space in the hold, but Bethany and Leandra had both managed to convince her to take their charity. “They’re not letting anybody into the city,” the soldier said at last, and Carver followed her gaze across the harbour. The city proper rose up out of the cliffs, in the misty distance. “This is the Gallows, where they normally keep the mages,” she explained. That sent a stab of worry through Carver, on behalf of his sister, and he scanned the area for templars. Being unable to find any didn’t exactly settle his nerves.

“Maybe they’re just sorting everyone here,” Leandra suggested, her tone a mixture of hope and lingering grief that she hadn’t yet been able to process. “And we’ll be let across the bay when we’re put in order.”

“Perhaps, Lady Hawke,” Aveline replied. “We should seek out a guard and find out.”

Carver felt her eyes weigh heavily upon him, soon joined by those of his mother and sister. “Alright,” he sighed, acceding to their unvoiced demand that he take the lead. A flutter of nerves tickled through his belly, and the younger warrior felt his elder sister’s absence keenly. She would have taken charge without hesitation. With a bracing breath, Carver pushed past his mother and their red-headed companion, and he sought out the nearest person in uniform. “Oy,” Carver gruffed, by way of greeting. “When’ll we get into the city?”

The unshaven, harassed-looking guard shrugged his shoulders. “If it were up to me, I’d have all you foreigners packed off back on your ships and sent back to Ferelden,” he replied. “Or to Orlais,” he added, grunting.

“But my mother was born here,” Carver pointed out. “She has family.”

The guard sighed. “Heard it all before, kid,” he drawled. “Look here, it’s my job to keep you all from rioting or spreading Blight sickness into the Gallows. You want to see if you can buy your way into town, you go up the stairs and talk to Captain Ewald.” The casual suggestion of corruption gave the young warrior pause, but he didn’t get a chance to investigate further before the guardsman continued. “Or you can march right back onto your boat and get the hell out of Kirkwall. Either way, stop bothering me.”

Carver bristled, but something within the warrior made him hold his tongue; since he’d been elected to do the talking, it would be his fault if his smart mouth got them all thrown into the harbour. Instead, he nodded to his sister and Aveline, and led them up the stone stairway up into the Gallows proper. Carver still kept a sharp eye out for any templars, but he saw none in the vast open-air atrium of the structure. There were no mages that he could see, either, but there was an important-looking man currently being harangued by a group of dodgy-looking mercenaries.

“...you flamin’ Blighter,” one of the mercenaries cursed, and the guard simply rolled his eyes. “We paid good coin to get ‘ere.”

Despite being severely outnumbered, the guardsman seemed annoyed rather than intimidated. “You’re too late,” he drawled, not without some measure of sympathy. “We’ve been letting you Fereldans in for months, now. Ever since the rumours of the Blight started.” Three of the seven Fereldans drew closer to the guardsman, reaching subtly for their weapons. The object of their ire stood his ground, however. “Kill me, if you like. That won’t change the fact that you’re stuck on this side of the harbour, with half of the city guard between you and the boats to the other side.”

The armed men seethed, but did not press their luck; tension was thick in the air, nonetheless. Carver stalked up beside the men haranguing the guardsman. “What of people with legitimate business in the city?”

Bethany spoke up from behind him. “We have family here, ser.”

The man heaved a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can tell by your accents that you’re both Fereldans,” he said. “And I’ve heard lies like that for months. Unless you’re a citizen or a merchant, you’ll stay here until we get ships enough to send you back whence you came.”

Carver was surprised when his mother pushed past him. “I am a citizen, messere,” Leandra proclaimed, in the most polished form of her accent that Carver had ever heard. “My name is Leandra Amell. My brother Gamlen should still be in residence in Hightown. You are Captain Ewald?”

“I am,” the guardsman confirmed, after a moment’s pause. He looked halfway between awe and incredulity. “I know a man named Gamlen Amell,” he admitted, his brows knitting. “Will he vouch for you?”

Leandra produced a small square of folded parchment. “If you give him this letter, he will. And then my children and I can cross?”

Captain Ewald took the letter and looked to reply, but one of the mercenaries scoffed. “What? You’re gonna let them through?” When Carver got a good look at them, his stomach lurched. These weren’t mere mercenaries seeking shelter, but deserters...proper ones, who’d fled from Ostagar after the third battle but before the final engagement. He recognized the faces of at least two of them.

Carver could see faint hints of the darkspawn corruption crawling up the neck of one of the men. Without thinking, he grabbed his mother and shoved her bodily away, so that he stood between her and the others. “Get her back,” he half-yelled at Bethany. “Keep yourselves out of trouble,” he insisted. No templars had materialized yet, but if things got out of hand, the warrior didn’t trust them to remain aloof for long.

The Blight-sick man sneered. “We’ve been here for four days. They just got here!” He gave the man beside him, evidently the leader of their little band of runaways, a significant look.

“That’s it,” the pushy man exclaimed. “We’re carvin’ our way out of here. Men!” That last word he barked out, loudly enough to hear in all corners of the atrium.

Carver noticed Aveline’s templar shield move into position from the corner of his eye, and the warrior didn’t wait to see if Bethany had taken their mother away; he brought his sword up in a wide arc, nearly gutting the tainted man before the poor sod knew that battle had been joined. “Don’t touch his blood,” Carver cried out as the man fell. “He’s got the Blight-sickness!”

And then Carver’s ears filled with the ringing of steel, and the sound of his own rushing heartbeat, once again. The deserters’ leader dueled him and Captain Ewald to a standstill for a good two minutes before the Fereldan and the Kirkwaller could overpower him. By that time, Aveline and a few guards were invested against the rest of the thugs who’d thought to take over the Gallows by force. They were a desperate lot, though, hungry and scared, and it wasn’t too long before the last of them lay dead.

“Unbelievable,” the guard-captain marveled, looking around at the carnage in disgust. After a breath, he looked to one of his guardsmen, one of the stragglers who hadn’t actually been in the fight. “Where is everyone? I don’t want this getting out of hand.” When his subordinate vowed to secure the area, he turned back to Carver. “The only Gamlen I know of is a drunkard who never has two coppers to rub together,” he said bluntly. “I can’t get you into the city, serah. That isn’t my decision. But I will find this Gamlen and see what he says about you.”

As he stalked away, Carver turned to see Bethany and their mother come from a shadowed alcove where they’d hidden. “I wish I could’ve helped,” Bethany breathed, when she got within whispering distance.

“I know,” Carver allowed, throwing glances to either side. “It wouldn’t do to bring the wrong kind of attention on us, though.” When his sister nodded her agreement, the warrior looked to Aveline, who stood wiping blood from her shortsword. “Thank you,” he managed, though part of him hoped that she was still trying to ignore him.

After a moment’s consideration, the woman’s stony features softened. “We should find some shelter,” she counseled. “Kirkwall’s even bigger than Denerim. It could take awhile to find someone, if your uncle even wishes to be found.” The soldier threw a last look over the corpses she’d helped to make, and appeared ready to say something else, but she dropped whatever might be bothering her just as Carver turned to seek out one of the covered wings of the alcove.

Aveline’s prediction proved apt, for they saw the sun peak above them twice more. “It’s been three days,” the soldier lamented, on the third forenoon. Her patience had grown shorter with each passing hour, the uncertainty of her position hanging over all of them like a headsman’s axe. “This waiting has to end.”

“Oh, dear,” Leandra sighed. “I’m certain my brother will turn up.”

“If they can find him,” Aveline pointed out. “And even then...he may be able to admit you to the city, but what of me? What business have I in Kirkwall?”

Bethany broke in. “Gamlen’s supposed to be nobility, with an estate in Hightown,” she pointed out. “Surely that means he’ll have some influence.”

Carver nodded. “You helped us get here in the first place,” he said. “We’ll all get in.” A commotion near the main stairs of the ancient prison drew his attention, and he saw an older man make his way toward them, with Captain Ewald a half-step behind. “Don’t look now, but I think our luck might’ve changed.”

The man drew nearer, and Leandra’s reaction confirmed his identity. “Gamlen!” Like a much younger woman, she sprung up and threw herself into his arms.

Gamlen returned the embrace with just a hint of reluctance. “Leandra,” he gruffed. “Damn, girl. The years haven’t been kind to you!” His mission a success, Captain Ewald parted company with the refugees. When Carver’s mother pulled away and Carver got a decent look at her brother, his lungs emptied in a sigh. The man’s clothes looked like they hadn’t been changed in weeks, and he had the stink of old whiskey about him.

Even so, Leandra seemed happier than she’d been since Cethlenn’s passing. “Oh, Gamlen. It’s so good to see you! How have you been?”

The man’s face twitched. “Let me say up front,” he began, with a placating wave of his hand. “I never expected this--the Blight. Your husband...gone.” Something approaching guilt twisted across his features. “I figured you’d decided to be Fereldan for life.”

Mention of her deceased husband must have brought Leandra’s more recent loss to the fore. “We almost didn’t make it,” she admitted. “And my poor, dear Ceth...” A sob escaped the woman’s throat, and she looked directly into her brother’s face. “I’ve lost my eldest child to get here. We wouldn’t’ve come if there were any other way.”

Carver saw his uncle swallow. “Maker help me,” the older man called. “Don’t drop this on me here, Leandra. I’m not even sure I can get you in.”

The warrior had nearly had enough. “So you’re just going to leave your own flesh and blood in a lurch? Is that it?”

Gamlen blinked several times, his eyes moving from his nephew’s face to the gleaming sword he wielded, whose point had risen half a metre. “I-I was hoping to grease some palms,” he stammered. “But the knight-commander’s been cracking down.” The man sneered. “We’re gonna need more grease.”

Leandra spoke up once more. “But...what about the estate? Surely Father left something for us when he died?”

Another shadow passed over her brother’s features, and Carver felt like raising his sword a few centimetres higher. “Yes, that...” Gamlen began, unable to meet their eyes. “The estate’s....gone. To settle a debt.” The bastard even managed to chuckle. “I’ve been meaning to write you.”

“Then there really is no hope,” Bethany sighed, forlornly.

At this, Gamlen’s embarrassed mumbling ceased, and he managed to give the refugees something approaching a hopeful smile. “Not quite,” he claimed. “I know some people who might help...if you’re not too delicate about the company you keep.”

Carver felt like he’d swallowed lead. “What do you mean?”

“In a few hours, some contacts of mine will show up,” Gamlen elaborated. “Athenril is...something like a small-time smuggler, while Meeran is the captain of a mercenary troupe known as the Red Iron. They could both use some...skilled help.” The man rubbed his neck. “You’ll have to choose which one of them to sign on with, and they’ll pay your way into the city.”

Carver’s head tilted. “What’s the catch?”

Gamlen hesitated. “You and your sister will have to work off the debt...for a year.”

Leandra gasped. “A year?” She looked from her brother to her children, worry carved into her expression.

“At least,” Gamlen amended. “It’s the best I could do!” He threw up his hands. “Trust me when I say that a couple of Fereldan refugees aren’t going to get any better offers.”

Aveline stepped up beside Carver. “And what of me? I will have no debts incurred on my behalf.”

The older man regarded her coolly. “Leandra’s letter didn’t mention any ginger hangers-on,” he commented. “You look like a woman who can hold her own weight, though. You can see if Meeran or Athenril will take you on, if you like.”

“Then you’ll come with us,” Leandra stated. “We’ll not see you abandoned after all we’ve been through together.”

Carver felt the red-haired soldier tense. “I...have no real option,” she admitted. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Carver shot back, trying out a friendly smile. When he saw her eyebrows crinkle in response, the young warrior dropped the pretense. “Now, let’s see if we have enough coin for a good rat stew before these characters arrive.”

The gruel provided for the refugees wasn’t much more than water, truthfully, but anything else was far too expensive for them to afford. Dimly, Carver wondered if such fare was what the mages ate, but he was far too protective of Bethany to investigate his suspicions further. Gamlen approached his younger relations and their companion after nearly an hour and pointed out the alcove where Athenril waited to measure their worth to her. She turned out to be a tall, hard-bitten elf with a scar cutting across her left eyebrow, and she made little issue over her business.

“I need people who can keep my shipments safe from the Coterie,” the elf admitted. “Steel and spells.”

Carver felt his heart leap up into his throat, when he stopped listening to the melody in the elf’s voice and finally comprehended her words. “Did our uncle tell you---”

“About your sister, aye,” Athenril confirmed. “We can keep her safe, so long as she works with us. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Aveline spoke up. “What is this ‘coterie’?”

The elf shrugged. “An association that takes a cut of half of the black market in this town.” She shook her head. “Me and my friends don’t like paying the toll, so we’re willing to take on some extra hands to keep their collectors at bay.”

Carver cleared his throat. “And what exactly will we be doing for you?”

“We keep our fingers in a lot of pots, if you know what I mean,” Athenril said, evasively. “No killin’ nor slavin’, but anything else is fair game.”

Aveline leaned closer to Bethany. “Do what you want,” she breathed. “But this sounds fishy, to me.”

The mage laughed. “We can’t be choosy.”

Yet Carver had to admit that his suspicions aligned with those of his fellow warrior. “How exactly did you turn out to be one of our uncle’s contacts?”

The elf’s eyes widened. “Is that what he called me?” She shared a laugh with the two other shady-looking elves who stood with her. “He owes us after his last big idea went tits-up. If you’re as good as he claims, we’ll be even after a year.”

The young warrior felt like throwing up his gruel, to realize that Gamlen was selling them to settle his debts. “We’ll...need some time to think it over,” he stalled. “Will you be here?”

Another shrug. “If I am, we can deal. If I’m not, you never heard my name. Got it?”

The boy nodded. “Never saw you before.” He took a few steps backward before turning, and his two companions followed him across the atrium to the opposite wing. Along the way, Gamlen pointed them to the corner, where an older-looking man in red steel armour stood with a couple of helmed underlings. “You’re Meeran, I take it?”

The man turned and gave him a once-over. “Heh. So you’re Hawke?” He looked underawed. “Your uncle talked up a storm about you. He’d better not be blowin’ smoke out of his arse.”

“What does Gamlen owe you, then?” Carver resisted the strange urge to boast in front of the man; he’d helped to save Captain Ewald’s life, after all. Being addressed by his surname felt odd, but not entirely unwelcome; he just hoped his father would be proud.

Meeran chuckled. “Cheated one o’ mine at a wallop match,” he remarked. “You turn out, we’ll call it square.”

The boy sighed. “Should’ve known. He said you were a mercenary?”

The man’s brows rose. “Right, you ain’t a Marcher like your uncle,” he reasoned. “The Red Iron’s pretty well-known about these parts. We keep our noses clean and pick who we work for.” He glanced over his shoulder for a moment, and Carver saw a sneer cross his face. “Of course, anyone tries to cheat us, we teach ‘em why that’s not such a smart idea.”

Bethany cleared her throat. “I never pictured myself as the mercenary type, to be honest.”

“You’re the reason we’re willing to pay to get you two here in the first place,” Meeran pointed out. “Gamlen let us know, and that got me interested.”

“Maker,” Carver lamented. “Is there anyone in the Gallows that doesn’t know?”

Meeran snickered. “Is she gettin’ hauled up past the grille?” He shook his head. “She can walk out of here with us, and we’ll keep her safe from the templars. Most companies have one or two at a time.”

Aveline broke in again. “And what of me? Would you be willing to take on another hand?”

The captain regarded the woman seriously. “Gamlen didn’t breathe a word about you...but you look stout enough.” His eyes moved to the hilt of her sword, peeking out over her shoulder. “Know how to wield that thing?”

The woman stood up straighter and clapped a hand to her breast. “I was a lieutenant in King Cailan’s army, ser.”

“And I was a private,” Carver pointed out, unable to resist the impulse at the last.

“Right,” Meeran drawled, but he considered them all evenly. “You’ll do...if you can pass the test.”

Carver took a breath, and looked at his sister and Aveline. The soldier looked almost eager to prove her worth, and much more comfortable with the above-board bloodiness the Red Iron offered. Bethany’s resolve was far less clear. “What do you think, Beth?”

The mage hesitated, glancing across the way to where Athenril likely still awaited their return. “I...don’t know,” she answered. “There are risks either way.”

The older man grunted. “You’ll have to kill people, like as not,” Meeran informed them. “Not just monsters. But there’s nothing we do that’ll get the magistrates after you, and we can handle the templars.”

Bethany’s frown slowly dissolved. “I guess there are worse lines of work.”

When Carver nodded, Meeran broke out into a grin, and told them the price of their admission into Kirkwall. A minor noble by the name of Friedrich had tried to set the company up, and now looked to flee Kirkwall disguised as a Fereldan refugee. With Meeran’s assurances that the man’s murder would be dealt with, Carver and Aveline saw to it themselves; Meeran agreed that Bethany’s use of magic could be tested well away from the centre of the templars’ power. When their task was done and Friedrich’s purse split between them, the two unlikely companions returned to their new boss. Scarcely an hour later, the refugees set foot on Kirkwall’s proper docks, and the newly-made mercenaries were allowed to escort Leandra to Gamlen’s hovel in the lower section of the city.

It was called Lowtown, where the city’s poor and most of the workmen lived, and where Gamlen said that he and Leandra would have to make their home. The young Hawkes and Aveline would live in the barracks of the Red Iron, under something approaching military discipline. The news was hard for Leandra to bear, but she saw her children off with tearful hugs, and they promised to visit as often as they could until their term was up. Carver had mixed feelings on the matter---he knew he’d miss his mother terribly, if he were honest with himself, but he took some measure of relief in the fact that he wouldn’t have to see Gamlen’s sullen face to remind him of the cause of that separation. And, just perhaps, he could find a place for himself amidst Meeran’s sellswords, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to my fantastic beta-reader, clafount!


	6. The Red Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hawkes must discharge the debts incurred to get into Kirkwall. Bethany must cope with her new role as a battlemage, while Carver seems to wear the warrior's badge more easily.

Thus began Bethany’s first day as a Red Iron spelltosser. At first she felt horribly resentful and guilty; the former because she was told that she would only see her mother perhaps one or two days out of a month, and the latter because Captain Meeran had staked a lot of his company’s fortunes on her abilities...and, if she were honest with herself, Bethany had to admit that she wasn’t a particularly good fighter. She’d managed to fight for her life against the darkspawn, at least until the ogre had nearly killed her; now, nearly every time she held onto her staff, she couldn’t help but remember Cethlenn shoving her backwards and out of danger.

“Here’s your quarters,” Meeran gruffed, tilting his head to a burgundy door. “You’ll all three find arms and armour within, standard-issue.” Bethany saw his eyes catch just over her shoulder, at the staff which had belonged to her father and sister before her. “Don’t think the stick we’ve got is as fancy as that one, though,” he commented offhandedly. “You can keep it.”

“Thank you, ser,” Bethany breathed, suddenly warming to the man. He’d already told them that they wouldn’t be paid a penny---or, rather, that their year’s wages had already gone into the templars’ and guards’ hands, to get them into the city. Yet, as short as he could be, Meeran obviously cared about the men and women in his company.

The man grunted. “Best get used to saying ‘serah’ or ‘messere’ if you don’t want to get called a dog lord for the rest of your life.” Barcus whuffed from beside his mistress, and Meeran barked a laugh in return. “Though I suppose it’ll be hard for you to avoid that, no matter how you sound.” He shook his head and gestured down the corridor. “Mess hall’s straight that way. Meal-bells ring three times a day, and I’d best see you all at table within five minutes of the clax.” He squared his shoulders, regarding each of them evenly. “Any questions?”

Carver spoke up. “When will we get into the field?”

Bethany saw Meeran’s forehead crease, but she couldn’t tell whether it was mirth or consternation. “Sergeant Halsten’ll come by in the morning to put you through your paces. If he thinks you’re up to scratch, you could see action inside of a week.”

At that, the mage felt her throat constrict. “And...what if he doesn’t think so?”

Meeran actually smiled, then. “Well,” he sighed, “it’ll be his job to get you into fighting form, and it’ll be your job to do everything he thinks’ll get you there. But you should all rest up tonight. I promise you’ll need it.” With a brief nod, he turned on his heel and marched down the corridor.

“That was...unexpected,” Aveline ventured.

Bethany shrugged. “I suppose we should do as he says,” she mused. She could tell that the other two looked tired from the two skirmishes they’d had to fight, and another pang of guilt clenched at her breast. With an odd feeling of nerves, Bethany turned the door’s crimson handle---Maker, she thought, is everything in this blasted house red?---and stepped into the small room. The answer to her unvoiced question was a resounding yes. Once she’d found and lit a lamp, the mage saw that the ceiling, walls, floor, and beds all had red-stained wood. A standalone cot was placed on the left, while a two-bunker stood empty on the right.

“I’ll take the top bunk,” Carver said, just a moment before Aveline could claim the same.

The older warrior inclined her head toward a smaller door. “There’s the privy, I’d wager,” she pronounced. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll use it.” Bethany’s eyebrow raised at Carver’s laugh. He pledged to be diligent, and Aveline nodded. “Then I’ll take the bottom.”

Bethany swallowed. “Don’t you want the single bed?” Almost at once she regretted the question, for a brief flicker of pain crossed over the former lieutenant’s features.

“I...” Aveline broke off, shaking her head. “The bottom bunk will serve me fine.”

“That’s settled, then,” Carver announced. “If this serge’s anything like my old one, we’ll get roused at six bells.” The young warrior carefully leaned his sword into a corner and took off his boots and bloodied shirt. Aveline made her own preparations for bed; Bethany stayed silent as the other woman wedged Ser Wesley’s shield firmly into the underside of the top bunk, so that she might look upon it in the night.

Bethany shrugged, still too nervous to consider sleeping, and took stock of the rest of the room. Aside from the privy, there was an alcove with two shelves of books which flanked a modest wardrobe and three stands of armour alongside a rack of weapons. The rack held a greatblade, a one-handed longsword, and a metal stave; all were forged from red steel. Only the shield propped up against the rack was truly grey, though of course it had the crimson-soaked insignia of the mercenary company prominently displayed. The mage closed in on the armour stands, inspecting the uniforms they’d be expected to wear. Two looked almost identical to the chain and plate which Meeran and his warriors wore, with shades of black and scarlet and crimson, but the leftmost stand held what Bethany could only assume were armoured robes, meant for herself.

When she ran a finger along the apron of red iron chainmail, Bethany felt a shimmer of power from the cloth beneath, and closer inspection revealed rust-coloured trousers and a tunic rather than the one-piece dresses which her father had told her were mandatory amongst the Circle’s mages. Still, the cloth of the red garments must have been cut of the same arcane threads with which the Circle’s robes were fashioned, and parts of Bethany couldn’t wait to try them on. The only thing that gave her pause was the belt, which held a pair of large daggers---her father and sister had often trained with the blades as a back-up for when magic wouldn’t suit, but Bethany herself had never gotten around to it. With a little sigh, she unlimbered her staff and placed it on the rack in place of the metal stave, which she tucked beside one of the bookshelves. “They’ll probably make me dye it,” she muttered to herself as she regarded the crosshatched wood of her father’s staff.

“That’ll be your first contribution,” Carver breathed, from a half-step behind her.

The surprise of the whisper quickly gave way to a warm sort of gratitude, and Bethany offered her brother a small smile. “That’s a good way to look at it, I suppose.” Another glance at the bookshelves had her yearning to run her fingers over the leather bindings of the codexes, but that could wait until morning. “Good night, Carver,” Bethany offered. “And Aveline.”

“Night, Beth,” the warrior replied, just before Aveline gave her own answer. The pair of them had stripped down to their smallclothes and now settled into their bunks without complaint.

Bethany lay upon her singleton still dressed in the functional robe she’d made for herself the year before. It was hours before the even breathing of her brother and his bunkmate lulled her to sleep, but even then, her dreams were tinged with red. Only a few minutes passed, or so it seemed, before the door sounded with three sharp knocks. Barcus rumbled a low growl in greeting, but Bethany came to her senses quickly enough to place a hand on the dog’s thick neck.

“Come in,” Aveline called; through the haze of waking, Bethany saw that both she and Carver were already awake and armoured.

The door swung inward, admitting a short man with even more grey hair than Meeran, though his leaf-green eyes were sharp. “Name’s Halsten,” he allowed. “Sergeant Halsten, to you three.” When his gaze lit upon Bethany, still sitting at the edge of her bed in her own clothes, his whiskered lip curled. “Meeran’s got me to see if you lot’re ready to fight, but you already knew that.” The way he said it made Bethany feel stupid---surely she should have realised that he would expect them all to be parade-ready for him. “Get dressed, serah mage.”

A suspicion threatened, that he would leer at her while she changed clothes, but Halsten retreated and shut the door. With a sigh, Bethany pushed herself off of the bed, stifling a yawn. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Carver shrugged off the accusation. “You looked like you could use the rest. It...won’t be a big deal, if the serge thinks you need a few weeks’ training before...”

He didn’t need to finish the thought. Bethany fought the urge to frown; part of her wanted to prove herself, but much of the rest of her was just as frightened as her brother must have imagined her to be. “Help me into that get-up,” she asked, nodding toward the only armour rack still dressed. As the mage unlaced her handmade garments, Aveline took it upon herself to turn around, which made Bethany grateful. She and Carver had shared baths for years when they were younger, and later the occasional naked swim in the pond near their home, so him helping her into the new uniform didn’t give her a second thought...but Aveline’s circumspection was welcome, all the same.

Finally, Bethany felt the subtle tingling of the lyrium-imbued cloth, and when she shouldered her staff, the weight seemed to lighten as her mana whispered about her. “Alright,” she called. “We’re ready, sergeant.”

The man re-entered their dormitory and studied them evenly, even the mabari. Barcus still seemed nervous, but another soothing gesture from his mistress kept him silent. “Well, well,” Halsten began. “In your proper gear, you all look a good team. Messere, you say you were a lieutenant?”

Aveline took a half-step forward. “I was, serah,” she confirmed. “In the royal regiment directly under King Cailan’s command.”

“You stood with him at Ostagar?” The man’s face seemed halfway between suspicion and respect.

“I did, sergeant,” Aveline replied. “For a time, at least. When...when Teyrn Loghain’s gambit failed to materialise in a goodly amount of time, the king ordered me and a small company to secure the valley for a possible retreat.”

Halsten nodded slowly. “So you fought darkspawn toe-to-toe and lived. Good.” When his eyes moved on to Carver, Aveline stepped back. Bethany was too fixated on looking at their interrogator to take note of her expression, but the elder warrior’s tone had been perfectly even. “You, boy,” Halsten continued. “You at Ostagar, too? What was your position?”

Carver’s voice shook, just slightly. “Second rank, right flank,” he pronounced. “I was in two proper battles while I was a private, and I fought darkspawn on the way here with Aveline and my sister.”

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “Were you with the king’s army, too?”

At her brother’s pause, Bethany chanced a glance his way. He looked nearly as ill as he’d seemed that first night back, just for an instant. Then he blinked. “No, ser...rah,” he drawled, correcting himself. “I was a bannerman of Bann Coerlic, whose fealty lay with Teyrn Loghain.”

“Then why in the Void are you standing here, lad?” Halsten’s tone was cold enough to chill lava.

“Because of me,” Bethany blurted out, shame and guilt giving her an odd sort of courage. She shrugged her shoulder, jostling her father’s staff. “He ran away from the army to protect me and our older sister, to get us out of the Blight’s path.”

When Sergeant Halsten’s eyes found her again, that brief glimmer of courage failed. “Other sister?” His brow rose. “I wasn’t told of another one.”

Aveline spoke up again. “She...died, messere. Protecting her mother from an ogre.”

The frank admission did much to cut the rising tension in the room. Halsten didn’t look satisfied, exactly, but he nodded just the same, looking straight at Bethany. “And you fought the darkspawn on the way here, as well?”

“I did, messere,” Bethany confirmed, adopting Aveline’s term. “I can do a bit of healing, and call up fire and ice when I need to.”

The information seemed to restore a bit of the sergeant’s confidence. “That’s good. You lot’re lucky, in a way---not too many raw recruits get a suite with a library in.” Another knife’s worth of guilt lanced through Bethany---she knew, without having to be told, that the room was to keep her away from the other mercenaries...but she was glad that Meeran had kept her brother with her. Halsten nodded over her shoulder to the bookshelves. “The Red Iron’s amassed a fair collection of tomes on magic in our time. We’ve not had a proper mage in a couple of years. It’ll be good to open the Cellar again.”

That threw Bethany off her guard. “The...cellar?”

“That’s what we call your training yard. A nice room below-decks with lead and aurum behind the walls, to keep templars from sussing you while you practice.” He shot a glance to the other two. “You’ll practice in the courtyard, with the rest of us. But first, we’re all going to the Cellar, so you can show me what you can do.”

Despite its name, the Cellar was actually quite spacious and well-lit. Bethany could feel the subtle anti-magic wards emanating from the ceiling and wall, and she understood that they kept the magical energies contained in the space. It was ingenious, really. A templar could be standing right over them while she summoned a blizzard and they’d likely be none the wiser.

Once all of them were inside and the door firmly shut, Sergeant Halsten inclined his head to Aveline. “Go on, then,” he prompted, nodding toward a large wooden dummy near the back of the room. “Show us what you’ve got, lieutenant.”

Bethany drew in a breath as Aveline squared her shoulders and unlimbered her shield. She rushed the wooden man without drawing her sword; a thwack sounded when the warrior ran headlong into the dummy, followed by two more in quick succession as she bashed and pummeled it. With a grunt, Aveline produced her red steel blade, sending woodchips flying when she lashed out in a wide arc. The woman grunted as she set to work on the dummy, embellishing her moves with some simple dodges and sidesteps, as though it were a live enemy fighting back at her.

After a few minutes, the sergeant whistled and called her off. “That was pretty good, serah,” he commented. “Take a rest at the bench. Boy!” He barked. “You’re up next.”

“Yes, sergeant,” Carver shot back. He closed the distance in a few quick bounds, unshouldering his new crimson-tinged greatblead as he went. It was less curved than his old one, but still fluted, and he seemed to carry it just as easily. Except for the occasional grunt, the young warrior was silent as he scythed and sliced at the dummy. More chunks of wood shed from the bodypost, and Carver finished off by leaping high into the air and bringing the sword down like an axe. That split the wooden man cleanly in two, leaving a cross-cut stump standing proudly. At Halsten’s dismissal, the warrior retreated, re-sheathing his blade and wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Good, good...” the sergeant allowed. “Now you, serah mage. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Nerves made Bethany’s fingers weak. “I can...do a few spells from this range.”

Halsten shook his head, but he showed none of the distaste that the mage might have expected. “Get closer. I want to see how you handle yourself hand-to-hand, as well as with magic.”

Swallowing with a bit of difficulty, Bethany marched closer to the ruined log, with Barcus never more than half a pace away. Halsten apparently knew enough about mabari hounds not to bother trying to give the beast orders directly, which relieved the mage; she couldn’t stand the thought of him being kenneled like an Orlesian mutt. With a steadying breath, she closed the distance to her target, gathering her mana as she did so. The mage began with a few strikes of the steel-capped end of her staff; the force of the strikes shook up through the wooden shaft and into her arms, and after only a half-minute’s exertion she felt the weight of her chain growing heavier.

Barcus got in on the act, for when she stepped back, he lunged in to snap at the chipped shaft of wood. “Heel, boy,” Bethany urged. When the dog returned to her side, she let off a small fireball that caught on the wood, throwing the red walls into bright relief. The mage followed-up with a freezing spell which squelched the flames, and left the wood so brittle that it shattered after another series of blows from the staff. Panting, Bethany turned to the sergeant.

The man looked unimpressed. “You forgot about your shankers, lass,” he said lightly.

Heat bloomed over Bethany’s cheeks---in the effort of her display, she had indeed forgotten about the blades at her hips. “I’ve...not really used daggers before, sergeant,” she admitted.

That got those green eyes of his to narrowing. “Really, now?” He shook his head. “You’d best pick it up.” The man glanced at the warriors. “You two are cleared for duty. From now on, you hit the practice yard up top until breakfast bell, then light calisthenics until lunch. Then weights until supper, and more yard-work until evening. Understood?” When Aveline and Carver voiced their assent, he nodded at them. “You’ll get told your missions as and when. Go clean your weapons until breakfast.”

Bethany shared a glance with Carver as he stood up and filed out behind the other warrior. Then she turned to the sergeant. “And...what am I to do, serah?”

“You’re gonna put that staff up and go fetch a pair of wooden daggers. You’ll spend a third of the day practicing with me, a third of the day working on your spells, and the other third studying in your dorm. Them books were hard-won, lass. Now, get on,” he prompted her, nodding toward a rack of practice weapons. When she’d retrieved the mock-weapons, he produced a cudgel of his own. “You ready?”

She wasn’t, as Halsten proved convincingly not long after. The room rang with the sound of wood-on-wood, and more than a little wood-on-steel---nearly all of the latter from the cudgel impacting Bethany’s torso. They worked past the breakfast bell, until both were drenched in sweat and Bethany was covered in bruises. More than once when the mage cried out in pain or consternation, Barcus threatened to intervene, but somehow she always found the strength to call the hound off. A half-hour before lunchtime, or so the sergeant said, he called their labours to a halt.

“You still got a lot to learn, girl,” he cautioned her. “But...if you work at it, I’ll have you earnin’ your keep inside of a month. Now rest up until the bell, then go eat. Afterwards, come down here and practice your magic until suppertime.” Bethany was inordinately proud of herself that she could hear a hitch in the older man’s voice. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow, right here.” With that, Sergeant Halsten retreated from the room, leaving the mage alone with her mabari and her bruises.

Waking up before dawn and working until past dusk was a normal part of growing up on a farm, but Bethany was soon exhausted by the routine of strenuous physical exercise that Halsten put her through. She barely saw Aveline or Carver outside of the hour before bedtime and the few minutes of morning; as good as the sergeant’s word, they were both called-in to a job within the first week, while Halsten still spent his mornings working her over or supervising her calisthenics. For the next five weeks, Bethany only had her staff and her dog to keep her company in between lunch and suppertime while she went to work honing her elemental abilities. Eventually, Halsten urged her to improve her healing as well, especially at range.

At night, Bethany tried her hand at studying the codexes provided for her. Just over half of them were useless, though, written either in the modern Tevinter tongue of Arcanum or the more traditional Ancient Tevene. From what little she knew of either tongue, however, the mage had cause to be grateful...from the titles alone, she suspected that nearly every tome held some kind of forbidden magics. Even some of the books in the King’s Tongue held brands of magic that her father had taken pains to warn her against. Without Cethlenn and their father, such arcane work was bitterly lonely, but the solitary mage bent herself to the task of deepening her mastery of the elements and healing arts.

As the sergeant had said, the Red Iron had no other mages currently in their employ, and nearly everyone besides her brother and Aveline seemed wary of getting too close to her. Bethany didn’t really begrudge them their concern; they could not know what it was like to walk the Fade in waking dreams, to have to constantly guard yourself against the possibility of a demon’s offer. Not that Bethany had gotten too much practice with either...growing up, she hadn’t had access to nearly enough lyrium to explore the Fade, and now that her supply was nearly unlimited, the prospect held very little appeal. Even so, she kept her hair short in her sister’s memory, and after many weeks of difficult work, Bethany felt the weight of her chainmail begin to lessen. When the call came for her to go into the field, as Carver and the mercenaries termed it, Bethany’s training had begun to take root. As she’d suspected, though, Sergeant Halsten strongly encouraged her to stain the golden wood of her father’s staff with a dark crimson ochre, in order to better fit with the other soldiers in the company. Bethany did so with only a bit of reluctance, taking the opportunity to acquaint herself more thoroughly with the different magics which her father and sister had poured into the arcane weapon.

Aveline and Carver took to their new lives much more quickly; her brother said that some days, it felt like he was back in Ostagar, before the whole world had turned upside-down. A distance remained between the two fighters, and Bethany wasn’t sure it would ever be properly bridged. Sometimes, in the evenings, Bethany caught Aveline throwing the younger warrior a cold look, when she thought no one could see. The older woman hardly ever spoke of her own loss, which made it easy to forget that it had happened, so Bethany had to remind herself to show the woman kindness...even if the mage wasn’t exactly distraught over Wesley’s death. Bethany had spent her life being frightened of templars, and Wesley had only relented from his duty at Aveline’s reprimand, which Bethany also took care never to forget.

It was obvious that Ostagar and its aftermath had changed Carver, though it was difficult to tell whether it was for the better or the worse. He seemed to have grown up quite a lot in only a few months, and the mage had to admit that there was some distance between them, now, where before there’d been none. True, her brother no longer acted like nailing her now non-existent braid to the headboard was a good idea, but he’d also started to drink and keep counsel with violent men who encouraged his own violence in their turn. They called him ‘Hawke’, and though the nickname sat uneasily upon him at first, Bethany saw him grow into it over time. Eventually, he took to spending much of his free-time in the company of a mustachioed man called Gustav, whose gaze often seemed overly-familiar whenever it fell upon Bethany. Sometimes Carver would disappear for days on end with Gustav and a few other brutes on small missions, and when he returned, her brother always seemed a bit rougher and more short-tempered.

For her part, Aveline seemed perfectly comfortable doing the Red Iron’s bloody work, as long as they could excuse their killing as self-defense...and, given how fond the nobles of the Free Marches seemed to be of hiring small armies to outmanoeuvre one-another, the two warriors could fill a crimson river as the months wore on. Eventually, Bethany managed to hit her stride outside of the practice yard as well. The first proper man to fall to her spells shook Bethany for days, until her brother told her of his own flight from the army and the death he’d had to deal to see it succeed. As weeks passed into months, the sight of other people’s blood on her staff and her hands stopped unsettling the mage so much, and she became glad that her mother and uncle saw her so rarely. She learnt to acquit herself with dagger and staff well enough to earn Meeran’s approval, though he seemed much taken with her brother’s skill and growing lack of mercy.

Approval was about all that any of the three of them earned, though. Technically, they were paid for each job that took them outside of the barracks, according to the Red Iron’s books. Yet, as Meeran had told them, the cost of getting into Kirkwall saw the refugees’ supposed earnings vanish. Since Aveline had only herself to account for, her debt was smaller, and by the second week of Wintersend she was released from her bond. The Hawkes had also brought in their mother, whose claim to citizenship hadn’t lightened the bribes needed to get her across the harbour, and they also had to contend with Meeran’s grudge against Gamlen to boot.

In what seemed like no time at all, the end of the next Justinian approached them. “Aveline’s with the city guard, now,” Carver mentioned offhandedly as he broke his fast with Bethany, the day before they were set to leave the Red Iron’s barracks for good. “Think she’ll put in a good word for me?”

“I...don’t know,” Bethany answered. “I hope so, though.” As glad as she was to have her freedom at last, it still brought a great deal of uncertainty...and the removal of Meeran’s protection added templars to the equation. Then Carver spent the day training with Gustav and his other friends, and Bethany suddenly couldn’t wait to get out of the red building.

Meeran accompanied them on their last job, which saw a nobleman from Tantervale bloodily disinherited from his estate in Kirkwall. When the man’s guards lay dead around them, the mercenary captain clapped arms with each of the Hawke siblings. “Your term’s up, Hawke,” he gruffed, inclining his head to Carver. “Been a pain in my arse, but a ruddy effective one.” Another nod to Bethany. “And your talents will be missed, as well. If either of you decide bein’ free and poor in Lowtown ain’t worth a bucket of rat piss, you come back to me, and we’ll work out a proper contract.”

Carver’s head tilted. “Without any debts to Gamlen?”

“Who?” The faux-confusion on Meeran’s face turned to a cheshire grin. “You want to re-up, I’ll pretend I never knew the bastard.”

The twins shared a glance. “We’ll...think about it,” Carver allowed, before he and Bethany walked out of the nobleman’s blood-soaked house and back to Lowtown. Instead of turning down the alley to the Red Iron’s barracks, however, the Hawkes cut through the narrow streets back to Gamlen’s hovel.


	7. Dolchstoss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aveline must give an accounting of herself to the captain of the guard, and then offer a reference for a friend.

Aveline couldn’t believe her eye, even as she double-checked the roster. Part of her cursed the string of luck she seemed to have had; this was the third night she’d be patrolling Lowtown with Donnic Hendyr, and every time she got within ten feet of the man, her tongue seemed to turn to lead. When she wasn’t slashing at bandits, her feet and hands fared little better in his presence, as well. Just like with Wesley, a small voice reminded her. But she was too old now, and had seen too much of the world, to believe that such an infatuation could bear fruit half so sweet again.

Her guardsman’s plate hung more heavily on her frame than the Red Iron uniform she’d left behind half a year before, but she welcomed the weight, as well as the new sword and shield. The uniform held not a single stitch of red, save the cowhide band she wore as a circlet to hold back her hair, which suited her just fine. The guardswoman still kept Wesley’s shield above her bunk in the guards’ barracks, but in the span of time since she’d left the man behind, it became just a little easier to get to sleep beneath it. She preferred to remember her husband as he’d been before Ostagar, with his keen eyes and unshakeable faith in the Maker’s plan. Her own had never been half so strong.

“Oy, Red. You gonna hog the roster all afternoon?” The voice jolted at her, breaking her from the memory.

“Sorry, Gillam.” With a single step, Aveline moved out of the man’s path, but she didn’t like the leer he gave her. “Keep your eyes to yourself,” she grunted, and turned to go to the mess. The woman didn’t hear the guardsman’s reply, but she felt his eyes lingering on her, nonetheless. If he wasn’t careful, he’d wind up with only one sword to swing.

The annoyance was enough to distract her halfway through her meal, until someone plopped down beside her. “So...” That voice was enough to make the guardswoman drop her spoon. “I see we’re both on for Lowtown, tonight.”

A curt nod, and a spoonful of soup to excuse herself from having to speak.

Donnic barked a laugh. “Talkative as always, eh, Aveline?”

That earned him a shrug.

“Listen,” the man went on. “Don’t pay any attention to Gillam. He’s in a bad mood because his girl at the Rose...” Now it was Donnic’s turn to stumble, and if she turned her head just slightly, Aveline thought she might catch a blush beneath the man’s stubble. “...sorry, I guess you don’t really want to hear that.”

“It’s fine,” Aveline forced herself to say. “Really.” She’d been teased about her hair and freckles all her life; there was no use complaining about it now. “It’s nothing to what I got with the mercenaries. ‘Didn’t see you there,’” she mocked, lowering her register. “‘Must’ve blended in with the walls!’”

Another laugh boomed. “Why on Earth would they say that?”

Aveline swallowed another spoonful of soup. “Because,” she snorted, “the whole bloody place was red, carpet to capstone. They...were a bit obsessed.”

“Right,” Donnic reasoned. “Call themselves the Red Iron, don’t they?”

Aveline’s lips parted, but then she realised who she was talking to, and her stomach gave a jerk that had nothing to do with the piss-poor soup. “Right,” she supplied, and twisted off the bench---away from Donnic---to make another retreat.

“Hang on, woman,” Donnic called after her. “No, really,” he said, when she showed no signs of slowing. “Captain’s got a message for you.”

That froze the guardswoman in her tracks. She didn’t turn, but she let Donnic catch up with her, all the same. When he merely stood there, she forced herself to throw him a glance. “Well?”

He cocked an eyebrow in that way he had, that drove her up the wall enough to want to smack him, and then smack him again for how bad smacking him the first time would’ve made her feel. “Do you realise that this is the most we’ve spoken in two days?” When that failed to elicit a response, Donnic sighed. “Two days where we’ve spent a cumulative twelve hours together?”

The muscle in Aveline’s jaw twitched proudly. “Your point?”

The guardsman sighed again. “Do I smell funny, or what? If you don’t like patrolling with me, just say so.”

His directness was maddening and attractive in equal measure, but she couldn’t put voice to either emotion. Instead, she merely shook her head. “I don’t speak unless...I have something to say.” Her eyes narrowed. “If I didn’t like you, Donnic, you’d know. Believe me.”

Donnic’s face relaxed, and the bastard even managed a smug grin. “I’m glad we cleared that up, guardswoman.”

“Now, about this message?” Aveline tried to keep her voice on an even keel and her eyes up, even though her patrolmate was hardly difficult to look upon. She mostly succeeded, too.

The man shrugged. “He just said he wanted to see you in his office, as soon as you were finished eating.” Donnic gave her another grin. “But I’m glad we got a chance to talk. I’ll see you tonight, hey?”

Aveline’s mouth opened, but before she could say anything else, Donnic turned and walked away, in the opposite direction of Captain Jeven’s office. She tried to turn and go about her own course, but this time she mainly failed, until Donnic’s well-built form disappeared through a doorway. A snicker sounded from closer than Aveline liked. She flinched and caught sight of Brennan, whose eyes glinted with mischief. The orange-haired guardswoman growled audibly. “Not. One. Word.” Her own eyes glinted with the righteous fury that had seen the ruin of many a bandit, and Aveline was satisfied when the other guardswoman retreated.

Aveline marched toward the captain’s office with purpose. When she’d first gotten accepted into the city guard, she was surprised to find that Captain Ewald had been replaced. Ewald was a young man, even younger than Aveline, if she’d had to guess, and he’d seemed perfectly fit when she’d seen him in the Gallows the previous year. Yet gossip among the guard informed her that he’d turned up dead in a dockside alleyway, and Jeven had been elevated in his place. She’d had cause already to suspect the man’s fidelity to the law, but it was not her place to question, at least not without firmer proof than she’d seen thus far.

“Come in,” came the answer to three hard raps on the door. “It’s open.”

The guardswoman marched into the office, taking care to shut the door behind her, and stood-to behind the vacant chair in front of the captain’s desk. “You wanted to see me, Captain?” She kept her eyes fixed a half-foot above the man’s greying hair, though she caught sight of several sheaves of parchment in the periphery of her vision.

A laboured sigh sounded from behind the desk. “Sit down, guardswoman.” She did so, crisply, and sat without making a sound while Jeven shuffled papers around for a good minute. He worked until he’d made two stacks, with a single blank parchment in between. “You’ve been with the guard for seven months, now.”

“Six months and twenty-four days, Captain.” She could give him to the hour, but even Aveline thought that might be taking it a bit too far.

Jeven hesitated for a moment. “Right,” he said. “Recruits are taken off of scrutiny after three months, which you know,” he went on. “You might also know that three months after scrutiny ends, there’s supposed to be a review...to see how you’re getting on.”

Aveline inclined her head for a heartbeat, but kept her eyes focused at the creases in Captain Jeven’s forehead. “I am aware, Captain.” She’d been expecting this, and hadn’t been impressed when her six months had passed unnoticed.

Jeven dabbed a quill into an inkpot, and began making scratches in the virgin parchment. “You come from Ferelden, yes?” Another nod moved him along. “You claim you were a lieutenant in the royal army there.”

“I do not claim it, serah,” the guardswoman stated. “It’s what I was.”

Jeven’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Aveline spied the bags beneath them. She’d never heard of him leading a patrol, so she couldn’t think what would have him lacking sleep, but the guardswoman held her peace. “So it seems,” he admitted, if a bit grudgingly. “We’ve just received a letter of concrit from Denerim, asserting an Aveline Vallen who served as a lieutenant in Denerim’s regiment. You match the rough description of the letter well enough.”

Aveline’s brows knitted. “Is my identity in question, Captain?”

“No, guardswoman,” Jeven assured her. “But your credentials...they were in some doubt, given the circumstances of your arrival. Surely you can understand our skepticism.”

The woman nodded again. She had to concede that arriving with a sword in hand from a country at war was hardly a guarantee of experience. “Have your doubts been assuaged, serah?”

The captain made a few more notes on his parchment. “For the greater part,” he affirmed. “Now, we get down to the business of your place, here.” Ice threatened to flood Aveline’s intestines, but she kept her expression as steady as iron. “How do you feel you’re getting on? With your fellow guards?”

“I’m still alive, thanks to a fair few of them,” the guardswoman stated. “As more than a couple are, thanks to me.” There was no hint of boast in her tone, despite the pride she took in her own skill. “I should think that they would acknowledge the same.”

Jeven grumbled, made a few more scratches, and then looked through one of the stacks of papers. If she cared to look, Aveline was fairly certain she’d recognise her own handwriting on some of them. “I’ll be honest with you, guardswoman,” the captain allowed, throwing a glance her way. “You’ve impressed quite a few of your peers, and Guard-Lieutenant DuCesne has put your name forward for consideration.”

The ice in her stomach melted, and Aveline’s brow rose. “Consideration for what, if I might ask?” After a heartbeat, she added, “Captain?”

“Consideration to receive the rank of Guard-Lieutenant, yourself.” The man found the parchment he was searching for, and slid it across the desk toward her. “Here’s DuCesne’s nomination.”

Aveline’s mouth dried out. “Serah...aren’t those supposed to be confidential?”

Jeven merely looked at her for a long moment, and then grunted. “Of course they are. But this concerns you directly. Aren’t you at least curious as to why DuCesne wants you?”

“I am, serah,” Aveline admitted. “But he meant that report for your eyes, not mine,” she pointed out. “If the guard-lieutenant wants to confide in me, I’ll leave that decision to him.” And though she was tempted, more than she thought she’d be, the guardswoman managed to keep her eyes up.

After a few seconds, Jeven reclaimed the parchment and replaced it on its pile. “Suit yourself,” he said with a greasy chuckle, and the mood in the room seemed to lighten in a way that made the guardswoman’s skin crawl. “It would mean an increase in pay and private quarters in the Viscount’s Keep, along with...other privileges.”

Aveline swallowed. “What sorts of privileges might those be, Captain?” She did her best to keep her face as blank as a new-made canvas.

Jeven evidently took that for interest. “Oh, there’s all kinds. You know we’re not knights, like the bloody templars. You’ll get to know the cream of Hightown, accompany the viscount to city functions, and have access to certain...luxuries that might not normally fall into the hands of an ordinary guard.”

So far, the guardswoman hadn’t heard anything remotely tempting. “And what would my responsibilities be, Captain?”

At her question, the dreamlike quality of Jeven’s expression dimmed. “You’ll take control of organizing the patrols for a section of the city. For the next half-year, the Foundry District would be your responsibility.” The man sat back, lacing his fingers together. “Of course, you’d have a complement of guards under your command, and you’d have to ensure their morale and discipline. Nothing beyond what you’ve experienced in Ferelden, I’m sure.” When his comment went unresponded to, Jeven’s head tilted slightly. “So? Do you want the commission or not?”

Of course she did, but she couldn’t come right out and say it. “It would...be an honour, Captain,” Aveline replied after a couple of breaths. “But...serah, I’ve been here under a year. There are plenty of guards who’ve seen their fifth winter in the barracks.”

“But none of them made Lowtown safe to walk through in broad daylight,” Jeven countered. “Well...safer than walking through it at night, anyway.”

Flattered as she was by the praise, something in Jeven’s tone put Aveline off. “I had no role in deciding the focus on Lowtown, Captain. I was just one of many working to restore order.”

The man considered her for a long moment. “Is that a rejection, then?” The sudden amiability evaporated.

“No, serah,” Aveline answered. “Consider it...a delay. I believe my lack of seniority would impact discipline negatively.” She blinked, nearly choking on the words, but forced them out anyway. “If you still think me worthy in a year, I would be delighted to accept.” After another breath, she amended, “Captain.”

A long pause ensued, during which Jeven’s expression cooled significantly. Just when the guardswoman thought to ask to be dismissed, however, the captain made a few more marks on the parchment and set it aside. “There is another matter,” he grunted, shuffling a few more papers until he found what he was looking for. “You came to me highly recommended by Meeran. Now I have another Fereldan who’s taken a stint in the Red Iron and wants to get some work on the city’s bill.” Surprise must have shown on Aveline’s features, for Jeven grunted. “I take it you might know the man?”

Aveline nodded. “If his name’s Carver Hawke, I just might, Captain.”

“That’s the man. You spent half a year with him, I’m told. I’d like to know your impression.” The man leaned forward, but he didn’t offer to show her Carver’s application. He was evidently capable of learning.

“Fortune brought us together, during the Blight.” She hated to think of it, for she couldn’t keep herself from seeing the black tendrils beneath Wesley’s skin, nor the blood on Carver’s hands from when he gave the templar a quick end. “I and my husband crossed paths with him and his family as we both fled Lothering. He’d been in Ostagar, but we hadn’t been properly introduced.”

“I wasn’t aware that you were married, guardswoman,” Jeven commented.

Aveline’s jaw threatened to break in half, but she collected herself with a breath. “I’m not,” she admitted. “Not anymore. The day I met Carver was the day my husband died...from the darkspawn taint.” And from his own dagger, in Carver’s hands. She didn’t mention that, but something drove her to bring up Cethlenn’s death. “He also lost his sister in a skirmish with an ogre.”

The captain whistled. “You two fought off an ogre?” He was equal parts incredulous and impressed.

Her lips parted, a breath away from mentioning Bethany, but something stayed her tongue. “His sister helped,” she said, evasively. “Before she died.” It wasn’t a lie, except by omission, and Aveline could deal with her conscience about it later.

Captain Jeven made a thoughtful noise, stroking a finger over his stubbly chin. “He’s a younger lad, so he can’t have been an officer. How did he survive the battle?”

The guardswoman grimaced. “His regiment wasn’t engaged in the fighting, at least not that night. He says he fought before, and from the skills he’s shown, I don’t doubt his ability. But...”

The captain cottoned on to her notion straightaway. “But he cut and ran from the army?”

“Yes, serah, he did.” Her voice grew tighter as she spoke; she’d come to understand his treatment of Wesley, and she even accepted the mercy in it, even if it shouldn’t have been his to give. But Aveline could never forgive him for breaking a sworn oath. “I survived the battle,” she pointed out. “My king ordered me back, and when he died, my bonds went with him. But Carver’s word was with his bann, and to Teyrn Loghain.”

The man cocked a brow at her. It was much less attractive on his face than it was on Donnic’s. “Yet Teyrn Loghain’s nothing but ashes, now, if the minstrels from the South are credible. Slaughtered by the Champion of Redcliffe.”

Aveline’s nostrils flared. “That doesn’t change the fact that Carver broke his word, and ran off with his family.” She shook her head. “You wanted my opinion, Captain. Here it is: Carver Hawke is a hell of a fighter. In the Red Iron, I saw him grow into one of the best swordsmen I’ve ever seen, and he’s got more years to grow. But,” she cautioned, “he takes orders only reluctantly. He’s quick to anger and slow to calm, and the only life he values is that of his kin.”

Jeven ruminated on the guardswoman’s words for a few moments. “Do you believe him...corruptible?”

Aveline’s brows knitted again. “I would not say that,” she admitted, and saw something change in the captain’s face that didn’t sit well with her. “But he’s not loyal to authority. I could trust him to have my back in a fight, or to return a coin purse, but I don’t think I could ever trust that he’d follow my orders.”

The captain grunted. “That is your assessment, then?”

“It is,” Aveline affirmed. If she felt a small pang of guilt that she might be denying Carver an opportunity, it was swamped by the knowledge that she’d spoken the truth...and that it wasn’t her decision to make. “Will that be all, Captain?”

He shrugged. “Unless you can think of anything else that needs my attention.” When Aveline shook her head, he nodded to the door. “Dismissed. Close up on your way out, guardswoman.”

Aveline rose and crossed her arms to her chest, bowing in a tight salute. She made certain the captain’s office door was secure when she left, and then she paused to consider her options. Some of her informants in Lowtown had her half-convinced of some trouble brewing on a route into the Vimmark Mountains. The path had been cleared for weeks, and she’d seen that the roster for that night had Brennan running a single patrol, but if Aveline’s information was correct...

If she took some initiative, she might keep Jeven’s interest in her, possibly repair any damage she’d done to Carver’s reputation, and maybe earn him some coin in the process. With that in mind, Aveline mounted the stairs out of the guards’ barracks. She still had a few hours before her patrol with Donnic, and if she hurried, she could gather up the Hawke siblings and sweep through the path enough to satisfy her own curiosity.

Twenty minutes later, she stood in front of Gamlen’s hole-in-the-wall in Lowtown. Splinters shook from the door when she knocked, but a familiar bark sounded from behind it, and Aveline’s effort was rewarded when Leandra appeared in the doorway.

“Aveline,” the older woman breathed. “What a pleasant surprise! Do come in!” Leandra swept aside, gesturing for the guardswoman’s entrance.

Gamlen sneered from a corner. “I do have a reputation to maintain, you know,” he grumbled. “Don’t want people thinking I’m weaseling to the Keep.”

Aveline ignored the surly man, instead turning to Bethany. “Is your brother in?”

“He’s resting,” the mage replied, looking up from a cramped writing desk. She had her crimson staff with her, but Aveline was amused to see that she’d also forsaken all other hints of red.

“Oh, dear, do sit down and have some tea,” Leandra pleaded. “I’ll go put a kettle on.”

“No,” Aveline interjected. “I’m sorry to barge in like this, mistress, but I have an...opportunity that your children might want to take advantage of. Time is of the essence, however.”

Leandra deflated slightly, but Bethany rose from her seat, offering her mother a placating gesture. “We need all the help we can get, Aveline,” the younger Hawke said. “I’ll get Carver.” She disappeared into one of the hovel’s three rooms, but she wasn’t long in returning, with her twin in tow.

Unlike his sister and Aveline, Carver still wore swatches of his old uniform, and the red-tinged blade was already strapped to his back. “What’ve you got for us?” His face was guarded, but Aveline couldn’t really blame him for that.

“Rumours of raiders out on the Sundermount path,” the guardswoman answered. “If it’s nothing, I don’t want to take up the guards’ time with it, but if there’s something there, we could wind up saving someone’s life.”

The boy barked a laugh. “Am I still a sword-for-charity, now?”

Aveline sighed, feeling vindicated in her earlier appraisal. “If we find bandits, there’s sure to be coin in it, for saving a guard if nothing else. Plus it’ll put your application in good standing.”

She saw Carver’s eyes widen, but rather than question how she might’ve known about his attempt at joining the city guard, he merely nodded and turned to Bethany. “What do you think, sister?”

“If we can help one of Aveline’s colleagues and keep the templars away, I’m happy to follow her,” Bethany affirmed. She’d already taken up her staff, and Barcus’ stump of a tail wagged in his excitement. “And we have business near Sundermount,” she added, in low tones.

Carver gave Aveline a significant look, and she remembered the promise that the Witch of the Wilds had pulled from them, which they had yet to fulfill. “It may need to wait,” she warned them. “If we run into trouble, we’ll have to report back without delay.”

The other warrior nodded. “Well, at least it won’t be a wasted trip, either way.” He gave a shrug. “We’ll do it.”

“Follow me, then,” the guardswoman instructed. “We haven’t much time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, thanks must go to clafount for her diligent beta-reading!


	8. Of Things Not Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill has never precisely fit in with her people, but now that her Keeper has stranded them at the foot of Sundermount, the First must decide whether her sworn duty is worth the ostracism of the very clan she's supposed to help protect.

“You promised, Keeper.” Merril’s voice shook with the effort of balancing her disappointment, anger, and fear. “You said you’d help me find my way!”

The elder elf looked up from the ancient tome which she’d been studying. “And I intend to, da’len, but you must be patient.” The Keeper glanced over the valley which their clan had inhabited for more than a twelvemonth. “The ara’vhen will come, soon. They must.”

The First swallowed, feeling the great weight of the shard in her pocket. “And then you will help me find what I seek?”

A heartbeat passed, and Marethari’s green-gold eyes glittered inscrutably. “I will help you,” she vowed. “To find your way.”

The reply was expected, but no less galling for that. “But you thought they should’ve already come! Our halla have nearly picked the valley clean of grass, and Isyla says they’re getting restless.”

Marethari’s eyes flashed once more. “They will come,” she affirmed. “Asha’bellanar has given them a task, and they cannot but see it completed.” She drew a deliberate breath. “Some few nights ago, I dreamed that the ara’vhen drew near, but then fortune pulled them away. They may tarry, but they will return.” The Keeper looked away again.

Merrill admired the few hints of red still left in her mentor’s hair, before blinking the thought away as foolish. She returned to her own work, memorising a poem about Geldauran, one of the Forgotten Ones. Forgotten by all but the Keepers and Firsts, that is. It was littered with words she did not recognise, but after she had learnt it by heart, the First would scour all of the lore she’d collected to try and fit them into her patchwork of the language. After a time of reading, however, the younger woman’s frustration won out over her diligence.“How much longer will we wait, Keeper?”

“As long as we must, da’len,” the elder woman answered. “As long as Arlathan sleeps, we cannot forsake our oaths.” Marethari flipped a few pages of her old, worn codex. “And until the day the ara’vhen arrive, you shall spend a few hours each evening at the vir’shiral, practicing the Rite for the Departed.”

Merrill’s eyes narrowed. “I know the Rite as well as I know my own name, Keeper. Such practice isn’t necessary.” Another pair of heartbeats passed, and the First felt her resolve crumble beneath the Keeper’s gaze. In the fading light of evening, Marethari’s eyes were aglow with the last rays of the sun.

“I’ve no doubt of your knowledge, da’len,” Marethari assured her. “Yet this is an old place, steeped in lore and magic from the days of Arlathan and throughout the ages. The vir’shiral will need to grow accustomed to your own magic in order to ensure the success of the Rite.”

Merrill’s heart skipped a beat. “So...I’m to climb Sundermount this very night?”

The Keeper nodded, slowly. “Only partway, to where the Old Ones sleep, but yes. The magic of the ritual must be settled in advance of Asha’bellanar’s delivery.”

“But...I didn’t think the Rite had any magic to it anymore.” The younger elf suddenly felt her stomach try to backflip. “Unless...” Unless Asha’bellanar was really an Old One, in need of the ceremony. The First could hardly contain her curiosity at that possibility.

Marethari snapped her book closed. “Beware of idle guessing, da’len,” she cautioned. “The path of wisdom has many tributaries which can lead you farther from your goal, and not every one of these is worth pursuing.”

The First felt her ears droop slightly. Her own lips silently formed the words of the reprimand as it was spoken by her elder. “Yes, Keeper,” she intoned once Marethari’s recitation was complete, feeling twelve winters old again for the space of a breath. That was the age she’d first heard the rebuke, and though it sometimes seemed she couldn’t go a week without hearing it repeated, every time it made her feel foolish. “Shall I go now?”

An incline of the Keeper’s head dismissed her, but the woman spoke up just as the First regained her feet. “Promise me that you won’t stray farther up the mountain path beyond the vir’shiral, Merril.” Those glowing eyes bore directly into the First’s spirit. “Sundermount has shadows which are dangerous even for the El’vhen.”

“I...” For an instant, a spark of rebelliousness threatened to take flame within Merrill’s breast, but she swallowed the urge to voice a rebuke. The mountain’s secrets would doubtless be valuable, but the First had ample reason to heed her Keeper’s warning.“Ma nuvenin, Keeper.”

“Ma serannas, da’len.” The Keeper blessed her with a relieved smile. With another nod, Marethari rose to stand, and descended the trail to the valley and her people.

Leaving Merrill alone, with nothing but her staff and her shard to keep her company. The First should be grateful, she knew; despite camping in the shadow of Sundermount for more than a year, she hadn’t been allowed to enter the vir’shiral---the burial place on the mountain where a few ancient elves were supposed to sleep. Being entrusted with the Rite for the Departed, and evidently on Asha’bellanar’s behalf, was a great honour which any elven mage would be proud of. Merrill put up the little codex with the lost poem, turning the opposite way, away from her Keeper and her clan. The weight of the book against her hip comforted her, and the challenge of the mysteries it held helped keep her focused.

But the First was frightened of the greater weight in her breast pocket. It was the only piece of the El’uvian she’d managed to bring with her across the Waking Sea, though she knew exactly where the rest of the mirror was, and she was intent on returning to Ferelden to claim it as soon as the Keeper gave her leave to do so. Merrill hoped that she could soon return to the familiar mountains and forests of her homeland, where the solitude was more a blessing than the curse it seemed to be becoming here. Whether Marethari admitted it or not, restoring one of the greatest artifacts of El’vhen history would also restore honour to them, and perhaps even a bit of power they could use to protect themselves from the wrath of the shem’len. The shard was also her only memento of Tamlen, and she would not waste his death by ignoring the mirror he’d discovered, no matter how much risk that path entailed.

Sundermount also scared the First. It wasn’t the dark, for Merrill could see nearly as well beneath a blanket of stars as by the light of day, and shadowed places had never bothered her. At least not until Tamlen had walked into the shadows of the El’uvian and never returned. After that, the First’s sleep became more troubled, and her resolve to preserve the People’s greatness only grew. Nearly as soon as the clan had arrived at the foot of the mountain, Merrill began hearing strange whispers in her dreams, and now whenever she strayed too far up the mountain path she could hear the susurrus while awake as well. She hadn’t dared admit her fears to the Keeper, for Marethari could be of no help in contending with any spirits which might be drawn by Merrill’s desire or, Dirth’am’en forbid, her pride. The only thing Merrill could hope to achieve by confiding thus in Marethari would be to have the hunters of the clan stalk her to an even more remote place and prepare her to meet Falon’Din.

Still, Merrill was an accomplished mage of the Dalish, and she’d faced spirits before. When she climbed far enough up the mountain this night, the First was not disappointed; the threads of magic weaved over Sundermount, and the Beyond was very close here, just out of reach in places...but all of that mystical energy seemed muted as the whisper caressed Merrill’s spine. She paused a half-dozen paces to the gateway of the vir’shiral, collecting her courage---as well as a touch of her magic---before she strode purposefully into the midst of the cairns which held the remains of elven sleepers.

A half-familiar tingle passed over her, and Merrill knew that the very place itself was assessing her worthiness; she shuddered to think what might move from the shadows if she proved unfit to tread upon this sacred ground. After a breath, however, the probing magic settled down into the background currents of power which flowed throughout the mountain. Her heart slowing to a more normal pace, the First made her way to the altar, where even now a blue flame burnt dimly from a clay lantern. It had likely been burning for a thousand years, perhaps more, and would continue for that long again.

“Hahren na melana sahlin,” Merrill breathed, looking from the altar to the breathtaking sight of the mountain range stretching out before them. “Emma ir abelas...” While she spoke, the First noticed that she could not hear the whispers anymore. That was intriguing, and if she thought it could be coincidence, the notion was proven wrong almost immediately after the last line of the Rite. “...vir lath sa'vunin.” A chill passed over the vir’shiral, and though there was no wind, the blue flame guttered in its pot, threatening to extinguish. The First felt her chest constrict as the area dimmed, but after a moment the flame regained its strength.

That was...most moving, child. The voice was thick and strong, but very faint, as though she were hearing it from underwater.

Merrill spun around, her heart in her throat and her gnarled staff in her hands. “Show yourself!” She gulped a breath of air, looking from nook to cranny. “If that’s you, Pol, I’ll skin your ears for a necklace.” The Alienage-born elf wasn’t as respectful of the First as much of the rest of her clan, which she normally didn’t mind, as it meant he would look her in the eye whenever they spoke...but on occasion that familiarity could be unwelcome.

Silence met her threat, at least for a few breaths. Then a low rumble rose from the rocks. Merrill might have thought it an echo of thunder, but the night’s sky was gloriously cloudless, and Mythal’s gift shone down upon the world as far as her eyes could see. Only after nearly a minute did the First realise that something was laughing at her.

Come to me, the voice came, again. I cannot reveal myself, but I dwell within the peak.

Merrill’s ears pricked up, and she renewed the grip on her staff. The whisper was much stronger here, more present even than in her dreams, but there was no mistaking it, now. “Declare yourself, spirit, or begone.” Another minute passed, and Merrill was almost convinced that her warning had thrown off her not-quite-welcome visitor. But then...

I am a traveller, exiled from my home, just as you are.

That could only mean that it was bound to a physical artifact. Which meant, in its turn, that some powerful mage thought the spirit too dangerous to keep wandering the Earth and the Beyond unchecked. The First actually relaxed, then at least a little; she knew that she must watch herself and her words very carefully, but as long as she didn’t approach the object of binding, there was nothing the spirit could do to harm her.

I know what you seek, the spirit said, unprompted. And I know you have the power within you to achieve it.

“I don’t,” Merrill replied, and then hated herself for giving voice to her doubts. “I’ve tried everything...” Every bit of lore and every spell she knew. But still she could not cleanse the shard of its corruption, of the curse which came from Banal’han, and which took Tamlen from this world.

Have you? Came the spirit’s answer. Are you certain there is no...other recourse upon which you might call?

Before she could fall further into temptation, Merrill bit down on her tongue; her anxiety caused her to underestimate the force of her jaw, however, and she tasted a hint of the salted copper tang of her own blood.

Yes, the spirit growled. There are many arts lost to the People, but one is ever within your grasp.

“I...can’t,” the First breathed. Esara’lin, blood magic, wasn’t forbidden amongst the People as it was amongst the shem’len, strictly speaking. But it was...problematic. There were no surviving elven accounts of the practice, leastwise to Merrill’s knowledge, and so any Keeper who knew it had almost certainly learnt it from consorting with a spirit. Such conduct would put a clan at great risk, and occasionally such a Keeper was exiled...or worse.

You can, the spirit insisted. You have but to come...and pay me a visit.

“No,” Merrill insisted. “I...promised the Keeper that I wouldn’t venture beyond the vir’shiral.” More silence. The First realised that she’d crept up to the very edge of the graveyard, nearly onto the path to the mountain’s peak. With a start, she took a few measured steps backward. When she turned to leave, though, another rumble sounded in her mind.

Please...abide awhile, the spirit pleaded. Many is the year since I have had even this much company.

She should ignore it, she knew---flee down the mountainside and beg the Keeper to move them on, to take her away from the temptation which took root even now deep within the First. But the Keeper would not budge, and Merrill’s duty was to the elder woman, and to the clan that they shared. And the First had been instructed to return to this ground every evening until further notice, a task which would become immensely more difficult if she earned this spirit’s ire. “Oh, Sylaise, guide my steps.”

I wish nothing of you this night, child, but your words. The ethereal vibration was as close to reassuring as Merrill could imagine, coming from a bound one.

Slowly, reluctantly, Merrill turned back to the narrower path and looked up to the distant peak. “And I offer nothing,” she warned. “The Keeper has promised to help me, when the time comes.”

Has she, now? Another chuckle. And what time is that?

“I cannot say,” the First replied. It was true on at least two levels, so she shouldn’t have to worry about angering the spirit by lying to it. Yet a bound spirit’s wrath was worth courting, in order to keep Asha’bellanar’s secrets. “Not too much longer, I hope.”

But does she...understand? Will she aid you in your task, or merely...do what she believes best, regardless of your wishes?

It was Merrill who lapsed into silence, then. True, she’d gotten the Keeper’s word, but only to ‘help her find her way’. But the First had already found her path, and now she needed a more experienced hand to guide her down it. “The Keeper wouldn’t do that to me,” she said, as much to herself as to the spirit. “She...” Merrill nearly said that the Keeper loved her, but she stopped just short of it. “She respects our history, as any Keeper should.”

Then why does she wait? After another interval, the spirit continued. Are you certain that your Keeper is not blind to the glories of your past, and the great potential of your future?

Visions of Arlathan flitted through Merrill’s imagination, almost unbidden. Before the shem’len came, the whole of the continent had been inhabited by the People. They belonged to the land, as much as it belonged to them, and everyone was touched by the gift of magic. But then the shem’len arrived from the North, and it wasn’t long before the People had been cast about, their history and culture and magic all but destroyed. The Keepers worked now to preserve and protect what few artifacts remained, for the benefit of future generations. No one understood this better than Merrill.

Look at what you’ve become. From the caretakers of the world, blessed of the Creators. Immortal. Wise. Strong. Another long pause. To ragged bandits, moving forever at the margins, forgotten and lost. Is the past what your Keeper wishes to regain...or does she simply seek to maintain the present?

Merrill’s denial caught in her throat, and she could not honestly voice the answer that she so wished to be true. “I...don’t know,” she said at last. “The mirror is shattered and tainted, but if it could only be cleansed and repaired...”

I can help you in that quest, child. I, who saw the struggles of the People against their foes first-hand, know the power that they might again wield.

Years of wariness subdued the desire which pulled at the First’s heart. “Even if I disbelieved the Keeper’s word, I could not pay the price you might ask of me.”

Another rumbling laugh. I am already in this world, the spirit pointed out. I have no need of seeing it...through a mortal’s eyes.

“I...should go,” Merrill breathed. “The Keeper will be waiting for me to fix her evening meal.” Some instinct made her soften her departure, however. “I’ll be back tomorrow, and the day after that.”

Go, then, the spirit hissed, not unkindly. I shall be waiting.

If the Keeper wondered why Merrill was so late in returning from the vir’shiral, or why she seemed so jumpy, the elder elf never spoke of it. The First proffered no explanation for the delay, either that night or any of those that followed. But after twenty-two evenings spent amongst the cairns, Merrill again asked for the Keeper’s aid in cleansing her shard of its foulness, and again she was denied. After a heated argument, the Keeper all but admitted that she would never help Merrill reconstruct the El’uvian, and Marethari suggested that the First’s visits to the vir’shiral should cease.

That very night, overcome with frustration and anger, Merrill snuck up the mountain path well after the Keeper and much of the rest of the clan had gone to sleep. She thought only to converse, to air her misgivings to the spirit. In recent weeks, it had told her a bit of its own history, of how it had been summoned to help the People in their war against the Tevinter Imperium, but had been locked away after the battle was lost. It had asked nothing of her except that she listen, and return. This time, however, the spirit’s voice became clear even at the gates of the vir’shal.

Have you decided to accept my offer?

Merrill stopped short, her heart pounding, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “I...have no choice,” she hissed, through clenched teeth. As soon as the First realised that it was true, though, she instantly calmed herself. Her thoughts shifted from preventing a deal to making the terms as clear as possible. “I will not welcome you into me,” she warned. “Nor will I release you from your bonds.”

Moments passed without a reply, and Merrill was near to turning away again. Very well, the spirit conceded. She couldn’t tell whether it was angry or merely resigned. But I cannot give freely. You must bring me a suitable sacrifice. Blood for blood.

“Will not mine be enough, spirit?” The First tried to keep the dismay from her tone, but she felt a trickle of anxiety.

No, came the spirit’s answer. To teach you properly, I require life. One of your halla will do.

Indecision crept up Merrill’s spine; she couldn’t properly balance the weight of her task with that of the betrayal she was being asked to commit. The halla were sacred creatures, companions rather than chattel, and sacrificing one to a magic ritual was simply unthinkable. And yet...the life of a single halla, or a single elf for that matter, was as a wisp of air when compared to the full potential of restoring an El’uvian. “I...will do it,” Merrill whispered, her cheeks growing wet.

Tonight, the spirit urged. Now. You have not much time before your Keeper grows wary.

“Mythal, protect me,” the First begged as she picked her way down the dark path. At its bottom, she turned right, toward the paddock where the halla bedded down each evening, under the watchful eye of Isyla. Merrill slunk through the deep shadows of the mountain, drawing closer to the watch-woman, whose ears twitched at the First’s approach. Before Isyla could turn to investigate, however, Merrill cast a powerful sleeping spell over her. The First caught Isyla as she fell, laying the woman gently onto the soft ground, and begged Ghi’lanna’in’s forgiveness with each step she took toward the elven goddess’s children.

Merrill opened the gate slowly, and discovered a young halla standing there, already awake. It was barely past its milking, but old enough that its mother did not keep it close by as she slept. With shaking hands, the First gathered up the ghi’da into her arms and beat a retreat back to the mountain path. In her haste, she completely forgot to close the gate behind her, and gave thought to nothing but stalking up the mountain as quickly as possible. By some miracle, the First made it to the vir’shiral without incident, and paused only for a breath before crossing onto the narrower path beyond it.

Good, the spirit rumbled, as she drew nearer to the summit. Her legs trembled when she entered the small cave at the very top of Sundermount, and saw the large, wooden idol to which the spirit had been bound. Before it sat a bowl of offering, and around it floated inexhaustible candles which bathed the chamber in an eerie glow. Closer, child, the voice called, vibrating through the very air.

Later, near dawn, Merrill emerged from the cave as though from a dream. Her hands were perfectly clean, but she could still feel the halla’s blood on them, mixed with her own. The horror of what she’d done couldn’t compete with the thrill of the new power within her veins, and she could hardly wait to put her lessons to use.

Until a figure emerged from a shadow, and caused the breath to flee from Merrill’s lungs. “What have you done, da’len?” The Keeper’s voice was small and strained, her face drawn. Those gold-green eyes bore more deeply into the First than they’d ever done before, and Merrill saw Marethari’s expression morph from disbelief to horror. “You have dealt with a demon. How could you do such a thing?”

“I...” Merrill deflated, looking down at the Keeper’s feet. “You left me no choice,” she admitted, and her tears came again, unbidden. “You would not help me.” A tendril of anger returned, and she threw an angry glance at the elder elf. “You never believed in me!”

The horror on Marethari’s face changed again, transforming into a rage so terrible that Merrill suddenly feared she might have to defend herself. “I have always believed in you, da’len,” the Keeper insisted. “It is you who have stopped believing in me. Your folly has cost you my trust...and it has cost the clan our halla.”

“What?!” With a shudder, Merrill understood her mistake.

“Isyla woke me in a panic not half an hour ago. She thinks she fell asleep at her post, and was only woken when a great terror spasmed through the herd,” Marethari said. “They’ve all fled...all but one.” The low light caught in her eyes, and they shone accusingly.

The First could hardly catch her breath. “Ar’abelas,” she whimpered through her tears. “What...what can I do, Keeper?”

“Nothing,” came Marethari’s icy response. “You must do nothing more this day, da’len. And you must never return to the mountaintop, not even when the ara’vhen come.” She motioned for Merrill to stand behind her, and once the First had done so, Marethari closed her eyes. The magical currents quickened about them, and with a loud pop, a barrier of raw power came into being at the mouth of the cave.

The Keeper led Merrill down the path, and though they said nothing between them, the First could feel further enchantments working over the land...traps and trials that not even an elf would dare to pass. Marethari erected a further barrier at the gates of the vir’shiral, and just beyond it, she caused a rockfall to block the easy path back down to the valley. Instead, they wended their way through a cavern, where the Keeper sowed further dangers for the unwary or the weak. All through this, though her heart was breaking, Merrill could offer no rebuke.

From then on, the Keeper tended her own meals, and kept her own council. Though none of the clan knew that the hallas’ departure was her fault, Merrill found herself isolated even further from them by her guilt and grief. Even after she’d regained her will, and restored the small sliver of mirror in her possession, the Keeper could not forgive her transgression. She would have one final task, to escort the ara’vhen to the vir’shiral through the ordeals and barriers Marethari had erected, and then she would no longer be welcome amongst her clan. Until then, Merrill kept to herself as much as possible, ruminating on her actions and on all she hoped still to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to fanfiction.net's clafount, whose beta-reading and encouragement have helped this story keep going.


	9. Sanguinus Drakonum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver meets up with a friend of his father's, and begins unlocking some dark secrets of his own.

Even though he’d served with the Red Iron for a full year before, this was just Carver’s third time in the captain’s office. “Bet you’re not as happy to see me as I am to see you,” Meeran gruffed, leaning against his desk with his arms folded in front of him. The stained red mahogany matched the man’s uniform almost perfectly.

“Honestly, serah?” Carver shrugged. “I’m glad to be back where I can be of use, and I’m looking forward to earning a bit of coin, but...”

“But you wanted a place a bit closer to the viscount’s office,” Meeran stated. “I wrote to Jeven, just like I promised I would. Sorry to hear that it didn’t work out.”

Carver swallowed, glancing from Captain Meeran to Gustav, one of his closer acquaintances. Mikkel and an unfamiliar person filled out the room. “I’m...sorry about what happened to Jeven, too.” He knew that Meeran and the former guard captain were close. “And I hope the shit doesn’t come sticking to you.”

Meeran grunted a laugh. “That’s my boy. I hear that your friend did well for herself, though. The other one that came over with you.” The man’s brow furrowed. “Aveline, her name was?”

The younger warrior nodded. “Viscount Dumar and his seneschal decided to make her Captain of the Guard, so they could reduce the scandal, or so they say.”

“Yet you and your sister’ve been back here for nigh on a month, now. The new captain wouldn’t take you?” Meeran’s head tilted, and Carver got an unexpected thought---he hoped he hadn’t cocked something up enough that the captain was going to kick him out.

“Said that having too many Fereldans would diminish morale,” Carver answered. “And...she told me she didn’t trust me to follow her orders.”

Meeran chuckled. “Always was a smart one, that.” He shook his head. “Well, her loss is my gain.” He uncrossed his arms, looking at each man gathered before him in turn. “You all wanna know why I’ve called you here, I suppose, and I reckon you want to know why your sister wasn’t invited.” That last he directed to Carver, who nodded. “We got a contract from a merchant out of Orlais, name of Hubert,” he informed them, pronouncing the name in the least-Orlesian manner possible. “Bastard runs a mining outfit in the Bone Pit.”

Carver felt a chill settle over his two acquaintances, and even the unknown man stood up straighter. He’d heard of the Bone Pit, of course; in its way, it was the reason that the Tevinters had founded Kirkwall in the first place, to mine lyrium and other ores with slave labour. Yet the magisters in charge of the mine were said to be cruel without compare, and they supposedly sacrificed thousands of slaves over the years, which made the place dangerous.

Gustav spoke up. “What’s he need with hired steel?” Though Carver wasn’t a native, he had no greater wish to see if the folktales of the place were true than Gustav evidently did.

“The man’s workers have up and disappeared, and everyone he sends to the mine to investigate doesn’t come back,” Meeran said. “Thing is, the bastard puts Fereldan refugees to work in them mines, and the word is that he doesn’t treat ‘em as good as an old pair of boots.”

Comprehension, as well as a bit of anger, began to dawn within Carver. “So they might’ve just buggered off.”

“Right,” Meeran confirmed. “He thought so, which is why he sent doves out to find them. Now he’s offered to pay us good and proper to find those doves...and the workers.” His eyes settled on Carver. “And if the lads are just lazing about, or trying to shake Hubert down for better pay, you four’ll do what needs doing to get ‘em back to work.”

Despite what Aveline seemed to think, Carver wasn’t a traitor. But his first loyalty would always be to his family, and especially his twin sister. To do that, he’d need the coin and the friends to keep clear of the templars. If that meant scaring a few of his countrymen into doing their jobs, he could live with that. “We will,” he confirmed.

Meeran’s brow furrowed. “Good man,” he commended. “And it looks like some introductions are in order.” He inclined his head toward the mystery man, who duly stepped forward.

He had icy blue eyes and a grey beard which hugged his jaw closely, and when he spoke, it was with a clipped accent that Carver couldn’t quite place. “Is this the boy you spoke of, Captain?” He wore a red cowl and the same trousers-and-chainmail getup as Bethany, and so Carver was almost certain that he was a mage.

“He is,” Meeran affirmed. “Carver Hawke, I’d like you to meet Tobrius.”

“Tobrius of Perivantium,” the man amended, giving Carver a long look up and down. “Yes, I see it now.”

A frown tugged at Carver’s lips. “Should I know you?” He’d never even heard of Perivantium, wherever in the Void that was.

The older man shook his head, deliberately. “No, son,” he replied, and smiled when he saw Carver bristle. “But I knew your father, Malcolm. He and I...were quite close.” Whatever Carver had been expecting to find when Sergeant Halsten ordered him to Meeran’s office, an apostate friend of his father’s wasn’t it. “I also knew your namesake,” Tobrius went on.

Confusion bloomed over Carver’s face like rashvine. “My...namesake?”

Tobrius inclined his head. “The man from whom you got your name,” he explained, as though Carver were nine years old, instead of nineteen. “A templar by the name of Ser Maurevar Carver.”

Confusion turned to shock, and then to incredulity, but before he could press further, Meeran cut in with a throat-clearing cough. “Good, now you know one another. Tobrius here will accompany you three to the Bone Pit.” His glance cut into Mikkel. “And no sniveling, either! You fail me, and I’ll show you what a curse looks like.”

The two Kirkwallers grumbled, clearly unhappy, but Carver took charge. “We won’t let you down, Captain,” he assured the man.

“You’d better not,” Meeran warned, but he gave the boy a roguish grin and dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

The Red Iron had no horses, and Carver’s squad had no coin to hire out a driver, even if they could find one willing to ferry them to the Bone Pit. So they all had to walk through the gates of Lowtown to the mines, as the slaves of old had done for nearly a thousand years. On the way, Mikkel and Gustav kept to themselves, whispering sullenly about their reservations. Tobrius seemed far less troubled, and his claims to knowledge interested Carver more than worries about what they might find at their destination.

“Where is Peri...wherever you said you were from,” Carver inquired, setting his mouth in frustration.

“Perivantium,” Tobrius corrected, sounding amused rather than annoyed. “It is a mid-sized city in the Imperium,” he informed the younger man. “Perhaps thrice the size of Kirkwall, at least when I last set foot there, before you were born.”

That gave Carver pause. “You’re Tevinter?”

“So it appears,” came Tobrius’ response.

Suspicion settled into the back of Carver’s mind. He knew hardly anything of the modern-day Tevinter Imperium, other than that it was not-so-secretly run by mages and had a heretical Divine. “I can’t see my father keeping counsel with a Tevinter magistrate,” he commented.

“Alas, I am no magister,” Tobrius admitted, gently correcting Carver in the process. “Though I was apprenticed to one, once. As was Malcolm.”

“I don’t believe you,” Carver said, and he didn’t.

The young man’s incredulity earned him a shrug. “There is much your father would not have told you, given your...differences.”

Suspicion was well on the way to resentment. “You think he wouldn’t trust me with his secrets because I’m not a mage, like he was?”

Tobrius put up a hand in submission. Now that they were beyond the city proper, he carried his red steel walking stick firmly in the crook of his other arm. “I cannot speculate on my friend’s method of childrearing, as we had become infrequent correspondents by then. But I have many letters dating from our time in the Imperium to the year before his death, in 9:27 Drakon.”

Somehow, Carver didn’t think the man’s pronunciation of the current Age an accident. He didn’t give an answer for a long moment, mulling his thoughts about. “Wait,” he breathed. “If you got your letter a year before, how do you know he died?”

The Tevinter mage did not hesitate. “I received a short note from his eldest daughter, not too long after the fact. Kethlenn, her name is?”

“Cethlenn,” Carver said, softening the first syllable until it resembled an ‘s’. He felt a small thrill at being able to correct the older man, for once. “She’s...gone now, too,” he admitted. “The Blight.”

Tobrius paused a moment, at that. “You have my sympathies,” he allowed. “From what Malcolm wrote of her, she showed great promise. As does your other sister. Bethany.”

Carver found his suspicion fading, if only slightly. “You do seem to know an awful lot about my family,” he had to admit. “But Father always claimed he came from Ferelden.”

“And so he said to me, as well,” Tobrius confirmed. “Yet the Imperium is no stranger to...talented wanderers, from Thedas.”

It took a moment for Carver to recall that Thedas was originally a Tevinter word, meant to refer to all of the lands outside of Imperial control. He’d learnt that by eavesdropping on a conversation between his father and his sisters, he realised. “Why didn’t you and he stay on, and become magisters, then?”

Tobrius measured a breath. “That is a long story,” he demurred. “Best shared after a successful adventure, I believe. In private.” His ice eyes wandered to the other two men in their company; they seemed too jumpy to be paying too close attention, but Carver supposed it was better to be cautious. “Once we are returned to the barracks, I will show you my collection of letters, and even let you take one or two for yourself.”

Another thought struck Carver. At this rate, he reckoned he’d be a scholar by the end of the month. “How come you didn’t seek Bethany out? I thought you were supposed to practice in the cellar?”

Tobrius gave a noncommittal shrug. “I am well beyond the need for daily exercise to keep my magic sharp, and I find solitude much more conducive to learning.” After another few steps, he went on. “As to your first question, I have read much of your sister in your father’s occasional letters, but relatively little of you. I wished to see if you’d grown into your name.”

“That’s right,” Carver reminded himself. “You say I was named after this...Ser Maurevar? Maurevar Carver?” He studied Tobrius’ face more closely. “Who is he?”

“He was a templar,” Tobrius informed the younger man. “Here in the Circle, in Kirkwall, where your father and I spent half a decade together. It was...different, then.”

Suspicion fled in the face of shock. “Father was in the Circle with you? And he named me after a bloody templar?” Carver shook his head, unable to fathom it.

The Tevinter man chuckled. “As I said, it was different. The templars were different, certainly. Ser Maurevar was the best of them.” Tobrius sighed, a bit wistfully. “He saw that your father was in love with your mother, and looked the other way when they ran off...”

The walk took more than an hour, which seemed to pass in no time at all, to Carver’s surprise. He learnt more about his father in that hour than he had in fifteen years of living with the man; most of all, he learnt that Malcolm was proud of having a non-magical child, and that he regretted having to spend nearly all of his time instructing his daughters to properly harness their talents. By the time the four men reached the Bone Pit, Tobrius had thoroughly convinced him of these things, and promised even more insights when they could speak more privily.

Almost immediately after the party entered the track-lain surface grounds of the mines, they were set upon by a band of thieves. Carver mistook them for workers, at first, until the men drew steel and issued a challenge. Though outnumbered three-to-one, the Red Iron men were brutally efficient, and they prevailed over the rabble without serious injury.

“Guess we know what happened to them doves Hubert sent out,” Mikkel mumbled, eyeballing a pair of corpses which predated their arrival by several days.

Gustav tittered, still on-edge despite getting his daggers bloody. “No sign of Fereldans, though,” he pointed out. “M-maybe we should head back to Lowtown. See if we can scrounge some up there.”

Carver barked a laugh. “I didn’t walk all this way just to turn tail and run back to Kirkwall.” He had no intention of giving Hubert more of his countrymen to abuse, either, but he wasn’t about to air that notion. “We’d better see what’s scared them off, so they come back on their own.” Though he was younger than all of them, something in his voice must have carried the day, for Gustav and Mikkel reluctantly agreed to follow him and Tobrius into the mines proper.

The first thing any of them noticed was that the air in the cave was warmer than the air outside, and it only grew warmer the farther they descended into the mountain. The two Kirkwallers grew jumpier with every step, and Carver figured they would’ve fled for certain if Tobrius hadn’t been bringing up the rear. Without warning, a section of wall collapsed close to Mikkel, and the man’s leg was caught in the rockfall. He didn’t spend too long in agony, however, for a huge lizard appeared in the gap in the wall and spit orange flame over the mercenary’s head and torso.

Gustav cried out. “Maker help me!”

Carver gave the man little thought; he readied his blade just in time to decapitate the beast before it could repeat the trick it had played on Mikkel. Together, he and Tobrius dealt with two more of the creatures, and then the Fereldan realised that they stood alone. “That bloody coward,” Carver growled. “To think, I used to look up to him.”

“To run from a dragon is not normally considered cowardice,” Tobrius ventured. “Though these are mere pups, their presence suggests that a more mature one may lie deeper in the stone.”

The warrior’s mouth ran dry, and a part of him reconsidered taking Gustav’s example. “That must be what scared the workers off, then.”

“If indeed they were frightened away,” Tobrius pointed out, gesturing to the charred top half of their former comrade. “I imagine by your expression that you wish to see the task completed?”

“I do,” Carver admitted, and as he said the words he knew them to be true. “Do you think we can? Just the two of us?”

The mage drew up to his full height, planting his staff firmly in the rock. “I believe so,” he allowed. “Yet it may require me to call upon arts that you would not wish to see.”

It took Carver a moment to work out the man’s implication, but when he did so, his grip redoubled on his sword. “You’re a blood mage,” the warrior stated, baldly.

“I am,” Tobrius admitted. “As was your own father,” he hastened to add, quickly. “Before you deny, you must understand that you have been...misinformed, about the art’s potency and its source.”

Carver’s mouth worked for nearly thirty seconds before he could produce a sound. “I know where it comes from,” he claimed. “My father did not consort with demons!”

“And neither have I,” the mage countered. He did not yell, like Carver had, but his tone grew just a bit sharper.

The point of Carver’s greatblade lowered a fraction of a centimetre. “How did you learn blood magic, then?”

Tobrius sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How does any mage learn any magical talent?” There was a challenge in his eyes when they fell upon the warrior again, a challenge for Carver to consider his words carefully. “I learnt through study and practice from one who’d learnt before me, with Malcolm at my side.”

“So your teachers consorted with demons, then?” Carver managed a chuckle, even if he felt like crying. To learn that his father was a blood mage, after learning so many good things about the man, was nearly enough to break the warrior’s heart.

“You misunderstand,” Tobrius alleged. “In the Imperium, the art is a closely-guarded secret, as it is here. But in Thedas, there are many fewer ways of apprehending it. Your Chantry has rendered learning the art by any means other than dealing with creatures of the Fade all but impossible, so it is no wonder that you believe that the sole source.”

The way the man spoke of blood magic as the art was unsettling, but Carver had to admit that his words made some sense. “You say you and my father learnt it in Tevinter?”

“From our magister,” Tobrius confirmed. “Like any magic, it can be used for great evil...but that is not necessarily the case. Much of what you think of as blood magic, such as mind-control or raising fields of corpses, are really symptoms of demonic possession...which is no more a danger for me than it is for your sister.” The mention of Bethany threw Carver enough that the mage pressed on. “The art can also be wielded to good intent,” he insisted. “And it may become necessary, either to bring down this dragon, or to escape with our lives, should it prove more than an adolescent.”

The warrior still hesitated, balancing upon a knife-edge. At last, his stubbornness won out; he’d come into the mines determined to finish his job, and he would see it through, no matter what it took. After a long moment, he put up his sword. “Alright,” Carver allowed. “But if I feel you worming around in my head, I will cut you down,” he warned.

“I will not give you cause to try,” Tobrius vowed, and he gestured for the warrior to lead on.

More dragonlings confronted them periodically as they moved through the mine’s caverns, and more than once Carver bore witness to the mage calling up his own blood to boost the power of his spells. The sight of him drawing the creatures’ blood back into himself to replenish what was lost was almost too much for the warrior, but he managed to swallow his disgust.

Luck was with them, of a sort. Shortly after they ran into a wild-eyed Fereldan survivor who fled at their instruction, Carver and Tobrius emerged into the open air. The raised plateau also held their prize---an actual dragon, though fairly young and still new to wing. The ensuing fight was more difficult than any Carver could remember, even counting the escape from Lothering, but in the end the dragon lay dead and he stood proudly beside the man his father once called a friend.

Exultant in victory, Carver was taken aback at the thoughtfulness of Tobrius’ expression. “I have...a thought,” the Tevinter mage admitted, deliberately pronouncing each syllable.

“Eh?” The warrior’s brow drew down, adrenaline and exhaustion mingling to make him suspicious once more. “What about?”

“A theory I have read scantly of,” Tobrius began. “Though I’d never had the opportunity to put it to practice...before now.” His icy eyes slid from the dragon’s ruined neck to Carver’s face. “How would you like to bridge the divide between yourself and your father, Carver Hawke?”

Carver would’ve swallowed, if his mouth hadn’t run dry. “What do you mean?”

“Magic as we know it comes from the Fade,” Tobrius explained. “Mages draw their mana through the Veil. It is this which makes us more visible to demons and spirits.”

The warrior sighed. “Your point being?”

“In the Imperium of old, dragons were worshipped as the source of magic, its very fount,” Tobrius went on, ignoring Carver’s interruption. “They are doubtless fascinating creatures, whose blood holds many intriguing properties. It is like lyrium,” he mused. “No---it is like the Fade itself.”

“Get to the bloody point already,” Carver growled.

The mage blessed him with a grin. “I shall, then,” he promised. “Blood magic works entirely differently to the sort of magic I explained above...instead of channeling mana from the Fade, blood---life---itself is used as fuel. In mages, such extra energy combines to make spells much more powerful than spells fueled by either source alone.” His eyes traced Carver up and down. “It is assumed by nearly everyone that only a mage can learn the art, but I have heard rumours that this is not so.”

The warrior’s brow tensed. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” He spoke only in a whisper, unable to believe his ears.

Tobrius shrugged. “I believe I can teach you the art,” he informed Carver. “Or at least a version of it. And I believe that dragon’s blood holds the key.”

“So you want to turn me into a mage? Into a maleficar?” Carver was surprised at how casual he sounded, as though he still couldn’t really grasp what was being offered.

“I wish to give you power, young Carver,” Tobrius admitted. “Power over your own blood, and the blood of your enemies. You may never be able to manipulate the elements as your sister does, but in time even those skills might be developed. I tell you now that I wish nothing in return; the success of the trial will be reward enough for my efforts.”

Carver was at a loss. He’d spent his entire life resenting magic, or at least resenting his sisters for monopolising their father’s time and attention...but he’d also secretly yearned for those talents, even as Bethany wished so badly to be rid of them. “No demons?” His voice shook.

The mage inclined his head. “No demons, Carver,” he said. “I swear it upon the love I bear your father.”

Carver looked the man in the eye, temptation slowly winning out over distress. “What should I do?”

In the small hours of the next morning, Tobrius returned to the barracks, with Carver hanging off his arm, hardly conscious. He didn’t remember getting lain gently down on his bed, nor was he aware of the three days which passes afterward, under Tobrius’ and Bethany’s careful eye. When the warrior finally woke, however, he felt a power coursing through his veins unlike any he’d ever imagined.

He did not speak of what passed on that plateau after the dragon had been put to rest, not even to his sister. Meeran was so impressed with Tobrius’ report that he used Gustav and Mikkel’s portion of Hubert’s fee to commission a new set of armour and a sword. The blade was red steel, of Tevinter design at Tobrius’ suggestion, and the mage dubbed it the Blade of the Archon. The armour was fine plate, silver, except for the silhouette of a blood-red dragon emblazoned across the breastplate, with its mirror along the back. The men of the Red Iron called it his Dragon Armour, but in the privacy of his mind, Carver thought of the piece as Blood Dragon Armour. The boost in prestige was as nothing when compared to the gift the dragon’s blood had given the warrior, however. In spare moments, Tobrius secretly instructed the younger man in his newly-won talents, and in the course of months he was well on the way to mastering them. It felt odd to be in a place where nearly everyone knew that his sister had magic, and even odder to know that he had to keep a secret on his own behalf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, goes to clafount of fanfiction.net for her wonderful beta-reading skills. Sorry for the delay; weekly updates should resume from here on out.


	10. Wench's Folly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen of the Eastern Seas discovers an associate breaking one of her cardinal rules, and she has to face some unpleasant consequences for her qualms.

Seven days. Seven bloody, awful, glorious, sinful, stressful, amazing days of tacking into the Amaranthine Ocean, courting the very edge of the world. Casavir had done his job well, and even though the bastards aboard the Siren’s Call were the most superstitious shits this side of the Donarks, not a one had threatened mutiny at Captain Isabela’s plan to outrun the dreadnaught by going into the open seas. The Qunari ships were frightfully fast, built low enough to cut through the water like a blade, but Isabela knew they never carried enough supplies for long voyages. Accordingly, the Rivaini pirate had known that her only chance of outrunning her pursuers was to head for the deep blue waters...which no human had successfully crossed. Of course, Isabela hadn’t provisioned the Call for a long voyage, either. By the third day of rollicking waves full of fish and no nets to catch them, even Casavir had trouble keeping order, what with the dwindling barrels of food and fresh water.

“Land ho!” Bright-eyes called from his crow’s nest. He was a cocky young elf from Denerim she’d picked up three years before; he called himself ‘Brand’, after the nickname for casteless dwarves, since Alienage elves seemed their equals. But within a week onboard, his keen elven vision got him a new moniker. “Estwatch for certain, Captain!”

Isabela nodded crisply and turned to address her crew. “Prepare the rigging and anchor! We’ll dock in Skrim’s Harbour to load up, and then set a course straight for Denerim!” That was where Castillon was waiting, along with half of the Felicisima Armada; if she didn’t make the drop, they’d never stop combing every cove and cranny for her ship. “Bloody fucking slaver,” she muttered to herself, so that none but Casavir could hear her.

“I hear Hayder’s wagered that we don’t show,” he let slip, in Antivan. A pidgin of Antivan, Rivaini, and the King’s Tongue glued the crew together, but both the first mate and the captain were fluent enough in each to speak at their leisure.

Isabela grinned at that, leaning heavily against the bannister while her first mate steered the Siren’s Call toward the port-town where they hoped to take a few hours’ refuge. “I’ll bet he just wants to dance with me, the poor boy.” Her chin still held a nick from the large flatblade that Hayder called his razor, but she’d given his shoulder a puckering wound from her right-hand dagger, Heartbreaker. “Velasco and Castillon both knew my terms...”

Casavir merely grunted; it was a conversation they’d had many times over the last year. Almost exactly a year before, her ship had been in nearly the same stretch of water, on the other side of Estwatch. She’d taken a sweet job from Castillon, or so she’d thought---escorting one of his merchant vessels overladen with goods from Denerim. Since the capitol city of Ferelden was under threat of the Blight, and run by the criminally incompetent Teyrn Howe and nug-humpingly paranoid Teyrn Loghain besides, it was safe to assume that none of the cargo was strictly legal. Later she’d laugh at the cliche that it had been too sweet to savour, but that was how it had felt at the time. Getting half of the profits from delivery of the vessel, along with all of the coin from her own cargo, wasn’t an opportunity that any pirate captain could easily dismiss. And Isabela was far from being just any pirate captain.

The memory was irresistible as Estwatch’s Eastern shores came into clearer relief. Then, it had been the island’s Western shoreline where the trouble started. Curiosity and suspicion were twin weapons just as sharp as Heartbreaker and Backstabber, and they both got the better of her halfway to Rialto.

 

* * *

 

“Do you think Captain Delgado would mind overmuch if I wanted to take a peek?” Velasco had explicitly told her that her job was solely escort, and he’d implied that Castillon would be terribly annoyed at her if she annoyed Delgado. The barnacle couldn’t’ve given her a bigger temptation to make a nuisance of herself if he’d tried.

Casavir didn’t even bother following her gaze to the ship. “I recommend against it, Captain,” he intoned, as he’d done every day for a week, now.

But the temptation was just too much. If she delayed any longer, they’d be in Rialto; her hold would be emptied and her purse would be filled, but her curiosity would be left wanting. “I wonder what’s so special about it...” Isabela mused, a bit of the magpie entering her voice. Then a shade of green caught her eye, over the other ship’s prow. “Oy, Bright-eyes!” Her tone was all captain as she addressed the crow’s nest. “We got land to starboard?”

“Aye, Captain,” the elf retorted. “Estwatch!”

Isabela mouthed the word just as her ears picked it up, and her heart started fluttering. The island was ill-named, for if it was ever a watchpost, those days were long since over. Now it stood as an unofficial outpost of Llomeryn, where raiders gathered to trade cargo and tall-tales, and where unwary merchants were liable to get their holds fleeced by shady inspectors. Not even the Felicisima Armada could hold sway over Estwatch, at least not for long.

It was just the excuse she needed to skirt around to Delgado’s starboard side and take a closer look. “Drop to half-sails!” She could hardly contain her excitement as the Call started flagging behind the other ship. Delgado called his vessel the Golden Stream, but somehow, it never quite conjured the image of a river of coin in Isabela’s mind. When the Stream was two ship-lengths ahead of the Call, Isabela barked another order. “Hard to port, Casavir!” Though he was not three metres from her, she still reveled in the authority of her captain’s voice.

“Aye, Captain,” came the man’s response. He sounded far less certain, but he spun the bottom of the wheel to the port side, which had the effect of turning the Siren’s Call to the right.

“Full sail! Step on it, you lanky lobster-tails!” The captain’s heartbeat quickened as the quarter-deck shifted beneath the gentle force of the wind; feeling her boat speed up was the fourth-best sensation Isabela could think of. At full sail, it took the Call hardly any time at all to cross behind the Stream and catch up the distance lost.

When Isabela crossed to the port side of the quarter-deck, she came within shouting distance of Delgado. “What are you after?!” The man’s yell was robbed of its force by the distance, but the Rivaini thought she could detect an undercurrent of annoyance, with a trace of nerves beneath it.

That roused her suspicion. “Get closer,” she snapped at Casavir, and threw a glance up to the crow’s nest. “Take a look through the port-holes,” she called, though not loudly enough for Delgado to hear; Brand’s ears were even sharper than his eyes, and she trusted the elf to pick up her meaning. Finally, Isabela turned to Delgado. “My job!” She shot back. “I’m known at Estwatch, and you’re not likely to get boarded if the Call’s seen first!”

It was a lie, of course; the sight of her ship was as likely to get them all run through with a rusty scimitar as it was to save Delgado’s precious cargo, but the Antivan wouldn’t have known that. The only reason Castillon could have for getting Isabela to escort the man was that his timbers were still green...she’d certainly never heard of him before Velasco came to her with Castillon’s offer. But he seemed to accept Isabela’s reasoning, since his answer wasn’t loud enough to hear over the wind.

Brand’s call was a different story, though. “There’s people, captain! In the hold!”

The morning sun must have given the elf enough light to see them by. Isabela’s gut suddenly clenched, memories of the Venefication Sea echoing in her thoughts. “Those bastards,” she hissed.

Casavir coughed. “It...could just be refugees,” he reasoned. “We’re not headed to Minrathous, after all.”

Which was perfectly true. Yet the Imperium’s reach still spread far and wide over Thedas. “Come alongside,” she instructed him, taking a step toward the main deck. “Half-stations!” The sight of her command moving through the crew like a wave sent a satisfying chill across Isabela’s spine. Her sailors milled about, readying their weapons even as they continued to work on the business of keeping the ship afloat. After a dozen heartbeats, the two ships were too close to risk giving any more commands, so the captain turned to her counterpart aboard the Stream.

“What are you doing?” The man ran a hand through his close-cropped beard. He wasn’t close enough for Isabela to see the nerves in his eyes, but she could already imagine them well enough.

“Honestly?” The Rivaini tilted her head and leaned over the banister, so that the sun glinted off of the yellowed hilts of her daggers. “I want to take a look at your manifest.” And your hold, she added, mentally.

Delgado shook his head. “Castillon said you weren’t to come aboard! He made a guarantee!” And whenever the pirate-lord guaranteed something, you could consider it done.

But Isabela had also made a guarantee; she wouldn’t ever be party to slaving. Castillon knew that even more thoroughly than he knew Velasco’s broken tooth. “Is that your answer, then, Delgado?”

A moment passed, in which the other captain yammered in Antivan with his own first mate. “It is,” he confirmed. “Now get back to a good distance, and see us to Rialto, as you promised.”

Isabela was fairly certain he blessed her with a string of curses, but her heart thudded too loudly in her ears to properly make them out. “Very well,” she called, before turning crisply toward the main deck of the Siren’s Call.

Casavir spoke up again. “If we lose this payday, some of the crew might not take it in their stride,” he warned in Rivaini, the least-spoken tongue on the ship.

Isabela cast him an icy glance, but didn’t bother replying. “Full stations! Prepare to board!” At her command, two-thirds of the crew dropped their pretense of working and readied their weapons. A few bows, plenty of swords, and three strong grappling hooks appeared seemingly out of nowhere. The Golden Stream looked to make her escape, but she hung too low in the water to outpace the Siren’s Call. When her ship closed in range of the hooks, Isabela turned back to Delgado. “Last chance to show me the books,” she warned him.

The man hesitated. At this distance, she could see the mixture of outrage and fear that told her he’d be easy to goad into violence and even easier to draw into death, if she cared to. “They’re just refugees!” He sounded desperate. “They paid their way to Antiva, to get away from the darkspawn!”

And Isabela might believe that, and live the rest of her days without a second thought for it. But she’d made herself a promise; promises to other people were something like suggestions, but promises to herself were much rarer---and much harder to break. A last glance over her crew settled the matter; even if it lost them their payday and lost her half of them to mutiny, it would be well-worth not having to chase her guilt to the bottom of a bottle of rum every night. “Hooks!”

At her word, the three hookmen threw the grapplers across the Stream’s bannister, where they sunk into the soft wood. A scant handful of heartbeats later and a soft crack sounded as the hulls came together. The lines were tied off, and Isabela was the first one across the narrow gap. Within five minutes, it became crystal clear just why Castillon had bargained on Isabela’s hard-nosed crew to protect Delgado; the man himself was a decent rogue, but his underlings were rawboned at best, and it wasn’t long before Backstabber nestled into the pit of Delgado’s throat and he was forced to concede defeat.

“Joschke, open the hold!” Isabela’s throat was thick with excitement from the all-too-brief battle; a quick glance told her that a few of her fighters had light injuries, but most of the blood on the Golden Stream’s deck was from Delgado’s crew.

The captive captain’s spit landed in her left eye, and Heartbreaker found its way between the man’s legs. “Castillon will use your guts to caulk my ship when he hears of this, bitch!”

Isabela blinked to clear her vision. “Aww...is poor Delgado going to tattle to big daddy Castillon?” She chuckled sultrily, drawing closer to him, until she could smell the stink of his rotten teeth. “He agreed to my terms...guaranteed them, even,” she sing-songed. “So if he’s broken his word to me, what makes you think he’ll keep it for you?” The captain shoved her prisoner away, and Casavir moved to bind him. “Joschke! The hold!”

The big Ander swordsman finally managed to lever up the heavy door. Just as he did so, the wind changed, and Isabela nearly gagged at the stench which blossomed from the bowels of the ship. In three paces she stood at the edge of the portal, and the sight waiting to greet her nearly made her lose her breakfast---packed so tightly that they had to stand were the dirtiest, sorriest group of people Isabela had ever seen. Elves and humans of all ages were shackled, even children. The Rivaini was almost certain she spied a suckling babe chained to its mother’s arm.

Rage. A rage unlike anything she’d ever felt washed over Isabela. “That complete bastard,” she grunted, turning away from the hold. Delgado stammered in fast Antivan, but Isabela was beyond listening to him. Half-blind from anger, she strutted up to the man without any grace and opened his throat in front of his whole crew. That set them to wailing in half-a-dozen languages, but as their captain fell to the deck, Isabela sent a scathing look over them all. “Estwatch is that way,” she shouted, pointing off to her right. “Those of you that can swim have a chance. Those that can’t...knew what you were signing up for.” Or you should have, Isabela thought.

Casavir, sturdy as always, glanced her way. “Are you sure, Captain?”

“Damned sure,” the Rivaini shot back. “Overboard! The lot of them!” She had to close her eyes against the sound of splashing; the last time she’d given the order, it had been the slaves on her own ship who’d been tossed in the drink, still chained. Delgado’s first mate thought to buy his own life by offering the skeleton key to the slaves’ cuffs, but Casavir took it off him and tipped him over the bannister all the same. After that, it was a job convincing the hold’s occupants that they were really being set free, but by midnight that night Isabela had grounded the Golden Stream on a sandbar within sight of Thedas proper. It was a swamp halfway between the Free Marcher cities of Wycome and Hercinia, but it was a damned sight better than Minrathous...or the bottom of the sea.

 

* * *

 

Isabela’s reverie faded as she observed her crew loading up barrels of salted meat, ripe lemons, and fresh water. She didn’t intend to get caught-out again without at least two weeks’ worth of provisions for all of her men. True, about half of the sailors had abandoned her shortly after the fiasco that Isabela was now trying to make amends for, so much of the new batch been crewed with the Call for less than a year...but the captain knew that starving the scallywags wouldn’t exactly inspire loyalty.

Casavir brought her a mug of spiced rum. “Do you think the Qunari have gone, Captain?”

“I doubt it,” she sighed, before tossing the drink back in a couple of gulps. The burn was an old friend in her throat, and a warm tingle at her belly. “We’ll rest on the dock for another hour, or until Bright-eyes catches sight of a horn-head’s boat. Then we’ll tack out to sea again and slingshot ourselves straight to Denerim.” Isabela limped over to the wheel, her hip still sore from the Orlesian rapier she hadn’t been able to dodge. “We really need to get an apostate aboard.”

Her first mate simply grunted, and she saw that he sipped his own mug thoughtfully.

“I know, I know,” Isabela scoffed. “The green-timbers would like to riot for fear of abominations, and you wouldn’t like to add the Chantry to our growing list of interested parties.”

“Aye, Captain,” was all that Casavir had to say.

They passed half an hour that way, idly chatting, alternately boasting about taking the Orlesian ship and complaining about the necessity of the operation in the first place, and the lack of time they’d been given to carry it out. Even though the Siren’s Call was one of the fastest boats on the water, they’d only caught up with the nondescript Orlesian transport with scant minutes to spare---theQunari’s ship arrived for the appointed rendez-vous at the mouth of the Northern Passage, frightfully close to Par Vollen, just as the Orlesian ship’s deck was going up in flames.

Three of her crew died in the assault, for even though the barque didn’t look fancy, it had been packed with chevaliers as well as tough sailors. “We still got the prize, though,” Isabela sing-songed, a bit of her old self cutting through the stress and worry that the last few days had brought. “Don’t we?” She cut a glance to Casavir, her smirk threatening to fall.

The man nodded. “Indeed we do, Captain,” he assured her. “I checked the package and locked the chest...and locked the door to your cabin.”

“Good man,” Isabela commended him. A mischievous voice whispered in her mind to double-check, but she mentally shouted it down; the captain didn’t trust anyone completely, not even herself, but she knew that she could trust Casavir in this. “We lose the relic, and we lose our necks, one way or another.”

“One way or another,” Casavir agreed. He opened his mouth again, but a sharp call from above them cut him off.

“Horn-head!” Brand barked. “Comin’ in fast, Captain!”

No time to be afraid. “Stand-to, you sad bunch of narwhal-fuckers! Up anchor, shove off, and full sail!” The reaction was nearly immediate, for though the crew was supposed to be resting, the ever-present threat had them all on edge. The dock’s ties were cut rather than undone and a pair of burly Nevarran seamen winched the anchor from the shallows in less than a minute. By then, Isabela could spot the dark mahogany stain on the Northern horizon; she was glad that she’d put the starboard side to the docks. For a few tense moments, the Call merely floundered in Skrim’s Harbour, as Casavir worked to catch the wind on the lateen sails. The dreadnaught did not have that problem, since it was powered by oars and ox-men’s muscle. At last, Isabela’s ship edged out of the harbour and caught onto a good wind. The deck shivered in that special way, and the Qunari ship quit gaining on them. “Starboard by half, Casavir,” the captain breathed.

“Aye, Captain,” came the first mate’s response, and he spun the wheel a half-turn counter-clockwise.

“Bronze bastards must’ve been shadowing Estwatch while we zig-zagged out in the blue,” Isabela mused. “Either they’ve already resupplied, or we’ll get lucky and gain a few hours.” Casavir grunted, but had no answer for her.

Luck was with them, or at least it seemed to be, for the dreadnought fell below the horizon just as land did. That didn’t stop Isabela from pulling out all of her tricks to get the Siren’s Call to gallop through the waves. The hold was still light, despite the provisions, since the only other cargo they had could fit inside of a single chest beneath her bed. It looked like it was working, too; as the sun settled over the continent beyond the Western horizon, Isabela thought they just might make Denerim after all. The Call still sailed at right-angles to the direct path, straight out into open water, but the likelihood of arriving at their destination seemed to grow by the minute.

She should have known better, though. After ten days on the sea without sight of another ship, Isabela had almost grown complacent. On the eleventh day after Estwatch, she was awakened by a hard knock to her cabin door. “Captain!” The sound of Casavir’s voice was enough to send icewater through her guts. “Bright-eyes says you need to see this!” When she scrambled onto the quarter-deck, the Rivaini saw that Brand had his spyglass at full length, pointed directly behind their course.

Isabela turned and squinted in the new light of the morning, but she could make out nothing, save deep blue water and orange-purple sky. “Alright,” she yelled. “I’m coming up!” It had been months since she’d had to climb the mainsail, but the captain slunk up it like it was an old friend...a really good old friend. When she reached the top, she took the spyglass and followed Brand’s finger. With her human eyes, Isabela still had trouble making anything out on the horizon, until the light shifted a certain way. When it did, the captain nearly fell off of her perch, and her heart definitely fell through her boots. “Oh, shit.”

The dreadnought was still on them, after all. Or, rather, a different dreadnaught was on them...since it had something that only very powerful Qunari ships ever bothered with.

The bloody fucking thing had sails.

“Means they mean business, doesn’t it, Captain?” Brand’s voice was so low that Isabela had a hard time hearing it over the whipping wind and her own pounding heart. “One of their generals, right?”

The pirate captain swallowed. Hard. “Right,” she said. “A sodding Arishok.”

Brand let off a high-pitched laugh. “Did we fuck up, Captain?”

“I think so, Bright-eyes,” Isabela growled, a shade of the anger she’d felt last year returning. “I really think so.” She handed the elf his spyglass and took the rails three at a time on her way down the mast, leaping down onto the deck from higher up than was strictly wise. Rolling to absorb the fall, Isabela let out a scream of frustration. “We’ve got company coming in! If we work hard, we might be able to slip them in Brandel’s Reach!” She knew that the large Fereldan island couldn’t be more than two days’ sailing, and she had cause to know its reefs much better than the Qunari would.

The captain gave the orders; they dumped everything that wasn’t nailed down, except the water and enough provisions for a week of half-rations...and the relic, of course. Even the lamps, spare rigging, and tools. That, along with Casavir’s expertise at the wheel and Isabela’s sense for the wind, gave them most of the day without actually being able to see more than a dot on the horizon behind them. By the next morning, however, the dot had become a smear...and by that evening, within sight of Brandel’s Reach, Brand gave them even more bad news. An armada of three Orlesian ships waited for them in the channel between Brandel’s Reach and Alamar Island, with two more closing in from the Southeast.

It was official, then. Castillon had sold her out to the Orlesians, and gotten her to sign her own death warrant by taking the relic, ensuring she’d get chased down by the Orlesians and the Qunari. And if by some miracle she succeeded, Isabela was certain he’d find some excuse to turn his portion of the Felicisima Armada against her. “Balls,” she grunted, shoving Casavir away from the wheel and yanking it hard clockwise.

“What’s your plan, Captain?” Her first mate sounded confused, and possibly even a little scared.

The pirate yanked her head toward the Free Marches. In the deep distance, a squall-line of clouds roiled just inland, and at this time of year it was likely to head South and cover the Waking Sea for days. “We’ll see if the damned horn-heads and the cheese-eating codsuckers can handle some foul weather,” she snapped. It was madness, pure and simple; not only had they lost the tools that might help them weather the storm, but the Waking Sea led directly to Val Royeaux itself, the capitol city of the Orlesian Empire. Yet there were plenty of coastal settlements in Ferelden and the Free Marches where her crew might get themselves lost until she could sort out her disagreements with Castillon.

And by sort out, she thought to herself, I mean to have the bastard’s balls for my breakfast.

“You’re a fool, Casavir,” Isabela said with a cackle. “A loyal fool, right to the end.”

Casavir sucked in a breath. “As you say, Captain,” he affirmed.

Isabela glanced over her shoulder for an instant, sweeping her gaze from the wall of canvas behind them to the tempest in front. But which storm would get the better of them? Her fingers tightened on the wheel and her feet dug into the deck as a shudder passed through the wood, and the pirate found herself exulting in the pull of the sea. As the sun set, a single shaft of golden light pierced the clouds, gleaming in her eye, and Isabela couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again must go to clafount, at fanfiction.net, for her awesome beta-reading and dedicated reviewing.


	11. Rosencrantz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twins are out of work, and seemingly out of luck, until a handsome dwarf with a penchant for crossbowry puts them on the right path.

The twins hadn’t left Gamlen’s house in seven days. It had taken three of those for them to recover from wounds they’d earned from carving their way out of the Red Iron, with a trail of bodies in their wake. Bethany still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, only that Carver had shaken her awake in the small hours one morning, with a sack over his shoulder and too much crimson on his plate. The halls had been filled with angry shouting and acrid hints of smoke from spells that the older mage, Tobrius, was flinging to keep the rest of the mercenaries from their door. The two mages, the warrior, and the mabari had cut a swathe through the barracks, laying waste to two-thirds of the men and women who called it home on their way. Tobrius left the siblings at Gamlen’s doorstep, though he promised to one day return.

Aveline visited not long after, while the twins were still recuperating, but Carver refused to say anything and none of the surviving mercenaries seemed apt to cooperate with her investigation. So, with no evidence, the captain-in-training left the Hawkes with a stern warning that murder was still a crime in Kirkwall, and asked them to keep themselves under wraps for at least a week. So they idled in the cramped Lowtown hovel with their mother, while Gamlen spent most of his time out, doing Maker-knew-what. At least Bethany had salvaged a few of the books she’d found the most useful, but she took care to keep those hidden, lest her uncle try to pawn them off for a few silvers.

What little time she’d spent in the man’s company over the past two years convinced Bethany that he was the least-trustworthy person she could imagine. Whenever she tried to ask him about her grandparents, or the estate that they once owned, he got moody and evasive. So it was a surprise when, that evening, he called the young Hawkes into the large common room upon his return.

“I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground,” he told them, his tone oddly jovial. “I think I might have something for the pair of you. A job, I mean.”

Carver raised an eyebrow. “Signed us up to start at the Rose to settle a debt?” It was an open secret that Gamlen spent much of his ‘free time’ at the establishment.

The older man blanched, or would’ve done, if his face were clean enough to notice. “Andraste’s ass, boy, listen to me. You need work and I’ve got a line on how to get it. If you’d step two feet out of my house once in awhile, you’d have heard of it by now, yourself. Almost everyone in Lowtown knows about it, so I’ve nothing to gain...except some peace and quiet.”

Bethany spoke up. “If you have any information, Uncle, we’d appreciate it.” What coin they’d scraped together from their service, and stole at its end, wouldn’t last them long now that they’d have to deal with the templars on their own.

“There’s a couple of dwarves in Hightown who’re looking to go into the Deep Roads,” Gamlen informed them. “Rumour has it they need people of skill to keep them safe from the darkspawn.”

A gasp sounded from the bedroom Gamlen shared with his sister. “Oh, Maker,” Leandra lamented. “Why does it have to be more darkspawn?” The mage shared a look with her mother; it was nearly two years since Cethlenn left them, but the wound was still fresh in Leandra’s soul. Bethany still missed her sister, as well.

Carver didn’t seem eager to jump at the opportunity, either. “What are they hoping to find down there?”

“How the blazes should I know that, boy?” Gamlen threw up his hands. “Word’s out that a shortman called Bartrand is looking for a few hands to take him where he and his brother want to go, and get them back in one piece.” It was to the older man’s credit, perhaps, that he didn’t back down at the stare Carver gave him. The warrior had put on a lot of muscle in the last couple of years.

“I imagine there’s treasure down there,” Bethany murmured, half to herself. Her voice seemed to cut the tension in the air, and everyone looked at her. “Well, the darkspawn aren’t exactly pawnbrokers,” she went on. “The histories say that dwarven kingdoms spanned Thedas, beneath the ground, before the Blights started.” The mage shrugged. “Perhaps this Bartrand fellow just wants a chance to reclaim some history.”

Gamlen snorted. “Wants to get himself enough gold to bathe in virgins’ blood, more like.” The man shook his head. “All that matters is that he hasn’t left yet, and there may be some work for the pair of you. Out of this house, and out of the city. Surely that’s got to be worth going to the Merchants’ Guild.”

“Why,” Carver gruffed, “that almost sounded thoughtful.” He threw his twin a look, and when she nodded slightly, his face set. “Alright,” he relented. “Let me get dressed...”

Despite the notoriety it would bring, or perhaps because of it, Carver decided to traipse up the cliff into Hightown in his dragon armour. Bethany and Barcus strode beside him; the mage had resewn her red chainmail into clothes of white and blue, and she took care to plant her staff with every step, mindful of how thin the pretense of using a walking stick must seem. Nevertheless, Aveline’s guards gave them a wide-enough berth, and no templars came rushing from the white-flagstoned alleyways as the siblings navigated the wealthy quarter of the city.

Their first stop was the bustling market square, which was itself nearly the size of Lothering. The only dwarf they knew was a runecrafter by the name of Worthy, who operated a stall on the edge of the marketplace. Both Bethany and Carver had been tasked with trucking with him during their stint in the Red Iron. Fortunately, his red-brown beard twitched with a smile when he caught sight of them.

“Hawke,” the dwarf called. “And Beth! I’m surprised to see you two. Heard somebody tore through the Red Iron like it was a paper dragon,” he said, chuckling. “I never thought anybody’d show Meeran to his grave.”

Bethany caught the shadow which passed over Carver’s expression, and her curiosity nearly got the better of her, but he spoke first. “We made it out,” he offered. “Been lying low for a few days, but it should be safe enough.”

The crafter whistled, clearly impressed. “If there was anyone I’d say could carve their way out of an ambush, it’d be you two,” he commented. “It must be harder to get by now, though, for a couple of dog lords.” Barcus whined from Bethany’s side, and Worthy shook his head. “This one’s always hungry,” he grunted, but fished around in his pocket for some jerky, all the same. He tossed it, and the dog had it snapped up half a heartbeat later. “But that’s all you’re getting,” the dwarf warned. “Merchants gotta eat, too, you know.”

“That’s actually what we were after,” Bethany broke in, a smile on her lips for the first time in more than a week. She’d always liked bringing Barcus to see the dwarf. “We’ve heard tell of an operation being put together by a dwarf called Bartrand.”

Worthy cocked a brow at her. “And you’re wondering if I can get you in on it?” He played at looking offended. “Do all of us look alike to you sodding sky-eaters?”

“Oh, come off it,” Carver sighed, smirking. “We know all you beardies stick together like honey rolls.”

Worthy’s cool facade broke into a grin, but before he could continue the banter, Bethany spoke up again. “If you’ve heard of the man, or anything about the venture, we’d be terribly grateful, messere.”

The dwarf looked from the mage to her dog and back again. “Grateful enough to bring the mutt back to steal some more of my jerky sometime?”

Bethany suppressed a giggle. “Of course,” she assured him.

“Great,” he replied. “In that case, the guy you’re looking for is holed up in the Merchants’ Guild.”

Carver rolled his eyes. “We knew that already.”

“You want my help or not, topsider?” There was just a bit less patience in Worthy’s voice. When no answer was forthcoming, he continued. “Like I said, Bartrand’s set up in the Guild, in an office pavilion that he runs the family businesses from. Sodding blighter’s got gold hair and two short beard-braids, with a bristle chin in between.” Compared to Worthy’s neck-warmer, the dwarf in question was practically bald. “Don’t tell him I sent you, though.”

“Thank you, messere,” Bethany said. That was definitely enough information to help them along.

Just as they turned to go, Worthy spoke up again. “Take care, Hawkes. Don’t get dead.”

The twins both waved their goodbyes, and set off to find the dwarf of the hour. The Dwarven Merchants’ Guild stood on a raised level behind market, ringed with enormous statues of the stout folk nearly ten metres high. Bethany imagined the sight would be far more intimidating in the deep darkness beneath the ground, but the finely-crafted marble gleamed in the sunlight, and everything about the district seemed breathtakingly beautiful after so long cooped-up in Lowtown. It didn’t take them long to find a pavilion with a dwarf who matched Worthy’s description.

And it didn’t take them long to know why the runecrafter didn’t want his name aired. “What do you want?” The dwarf behind the table spat, as though they were tax collectors, before either of them could speak.

The mage deferred to her brother, put off by the stranger’s temperament. “We want in on your enterprise,” Carver blurted out. “To the Deep Roads.”

The dwarf drew up, sucking in a breath. He topped out near Bethany’s sternum, and spent almost a full minute looking the both of them up and down. His expression went from bad to worse, and a growl started from his chest, so low that Bethany felt it in the soles of her feet. “No,” he barked, cutting the growl off abruptly.

Carver’s mouth opened, but hardly a sound came out. Anger leeched into his face. “What do you mean, no?”

“I don’t need a couple of kids skulking around my expedition,” the dwarf answered.

“But we have skills, and experience!” Carver gestured, perhaps unconsciously, to the outline of the dragon splashed across his chest.

The dwarf, whom Bethany presumed was Bartrand, literally spat at their feet. “Ancestors’ tits, human! No!”

Bethany swallowed her discomfort. “But...we’ve fought darkspawn before,” she pointed out.

“So’ve half of the refugees in this dump,” the dwarf countered. “I know you’re lookin’ for an easy way out of the slums, but this ain’t your meal ticket.”

Carver had a different tactic to try, apparently. “Can’t we at least buy you a drink, first?”

The dwarf’s eyes widened for a brief moment, before he squinted at them again. “Sod off,” he said at last. “Before I get you ejected from the square.” Short and unarmed the man might be, but he obviously carried some influence with his fellows in the guild.

With a defeated sigh, Carver turned and marched halfway across the plaza. Bethany had to trot to keep up with him. “What are we going to do,” she wondered. “That expedition was our only chance!”

The warrior was fuming, but his expression softened when he caught sight of his sister. “We’ll...figure something out,” he managed. “We’ve made a name for ourselves, these last two years. It can’t all have been for nothing.” Bethany was about to reply, when a stranger suddenly collided with Carver. “Watch out,” he growled, pushing the boy away. Two steps later, the mage saw her brother pawing at his belt. “Hey!”

They both turned to give chase to the thief, but before they broke into a run, the red-haired lad slammed up against a wall from an unseen force. Bethany stopped short; she hadn’t sensed magic, but she was wary, just in case. The mystery was solved, however, when a beardless dwarf in a leather duster sauntered up to the boy. “I knew a pickpocket once who could take all the coin from your pockets just by smiling at you,” he boasted. “But you? You don’t have the style to work Hightown, let alone the Merchants’ Guild.” The dwarf slugged the thief and took possession of Carver’s coin purse. With a further yank at the boy’s shoulder, the dwarf reclaimed a crossbow bolt, while the boy fled.

The dwarf turned toward the Hawkes, casually twirling the bolt in one hand while he weighed the purse in the other. “How do you do?” He asked them, tossing the leather bag in Carver’s direction. “Varric Tethras, at your service.” Then he unshouldered the fanciest-looking crossbow Bethany had ever seen, taking care to replace the bolt in what looked like the body of the device.

Carver didn’t seem to know what to think of the man. “I...guess I should say thank you,” he said at last, refastening his purse more securely onto his belt. “But why should I know you?”

“Because you were just haggling with my brother,” Varric informed them. “Quite poorly, I might add. No offence.”

Bethany stepped in, before Carver decided to take offence anyway. “He seemed set on denying us the work,” she said. “Even though we know what we’re doing.”

The dwarf breathed a long, low sigh, his brow creasing. “Bartrand wouldn’t know an opportunity if it hit him square in the jaw,” he lamented. Then his expression brightened. “I, however, am quite practical.” His eyes settled on Carver. “With a man like you, we could get this operation into the ground in no time. You’ve built quite the reputation,” he observed.

Carver swallowed, looking slightly embarrassed, even though he’d said much the same thing not half an hour before. “I...well, you must’ve heard of Bethany, too.”

Varric threw a glance her way. “A little,” he conceded, “but the name ‘Hawke’ is on many lips these days, and she’s not the reason for that.”

Bethany felt a flush rising along her cheeks. “That’s quite alright,” she assured her brother. “We don’t want me getting too much attention, now do we?”

That brought Carver to his senses. “Right.” His brows knitted. “What exactly are you proposing, serah?”

Varric scratched at his chest---his luxuriously-hairy chest, Bethany noted, not unpleasantly. “Bartrand’s been trying to get this expedition moving for over a year now. He’s nearly torn his beard out trying to fund the thing; he’s called in every favour he thinks he can get away with, but he just can’t do it.” The dwarf shook his head. “There’re plenty of knuckle-heads around to hire, but there’s no guarantee of return, so we’re taking on the risk of paying them ourselves.”

The warrior nodded. “I guess I can understand that,” he conceded. “But it doesn’t sound like an offer.”

The dwarf waved him off. “We don’t need another hireling,” he explained. “We need a partner. Invest in the expedition,” he cajoled them. “Fifty sovereigns and you’re good to go. Bartrand can’t refuse that offer---not with me there to vouch for you.”

Bethany couldn’t keep herself from snarking a laugh. “If we had that kind of coin, messere, we wouldn’t need to hire on to the expedition in the first place.”

A gleam entered Varric’s eye that didn’t quite settle well with her. “You aren’t thinking long-term,” he pointed out, and his gaze pivoted to the red staff in her grasp. “Someone in your position in this city needs more than a bit of coin to keep breathing free air.” He put up his hands when he saw the flash of panic in her face. “All I’m saying is that this expedition could set you and your family up for life. You could move into Hightown, grease the right wheels, set yourselves up a nice, plum existence.”

Carver gave a thoughtful hmm. “You just said that there wasn’t a guarantee,” he shot back at the dwarf.

“In business, there never is,” Varric replied. “Anyone who tells you any differently is selling something you don’t want to buy.” He shrugged. “Think of it as a golden opportunity, instead. After a Blight, there’s only a brief window when the Deep Roads won’t already be picked over, or crawling with darkspawn. That window’s closing fast, however, and if we don’t get moving we’ll wind up with a fancy expedition and nowhere to go.”

Bethany saw that her brother was being won over. He glanced at her, concern tinging his face. “What do you think, Beth?”

“I think we should take it,” she answered, almost immediately. Her words surprised her, but they kept coming, seemingly of their own accord. “Better to go into the Deep Roads than sit around waiting to get thrown into the Gallows,” she reasoned. “And at least I can fight darkspawn.”

Carver inclined his head. “I guess you’re right,” he conceded. “But,” he said, turning back to Varric. “It’s all moot, anyhow. You felt my purse...we don’t have anything near fifty sovs.”

The dwarf’s smile was oily enough to start a fire. “That’s because you’re not connected to the right people,” he claimed. “Kirkwall’s crawling with work, if you know where to look. And that’s where I come in.”

“If you know where the money is,” Carver interjected, “why haven’t you got it already?”

Varric’s brows rose. “Me? I’m just a businessman,” he demurred.

Bethany nodded to the crossbow he’d put behind his shoulder. “I doubt that petty thief would say the same,” she pointed out.

“Okay,” Varric relented. “I’m a businessman who occasionally shoots people.” He unshouldered his weapon, keeping it pointed low. “Say hello to Bianca.”

Carver snickered. “You named your crossbow?”

The dwarf looked offended for an instant. “She and I have a business relationship,” he informed them. “If you think you need me to finish a job, I’d be delighted to bring her along. Otherwise I’ll be in my room at the Hanged Man,” he said, referencing a large pub-and-inn in Lowtown where the bottom four-fifths of Kirkwall society congregated. “You should look me up there if you go more than a couple of days without seeing me.”

“Hold a moment,” Bethany piped up. “We haven’t worked out any terms, really.”

“Ah,” Varric replied, looking honestly sheepish. “Right. Like I said, I can shake out my contacts for odd jobs. I don’t care about a finder’s fee, but you should keep aside some coin from each job, and you’ll have the fifty sovereigns in a matter of weeks.”

Carver picked up where his sister had left off. “And say we invest the money. What can we expect from it?”

“My brother and I are partners,” Varric explained, collapsing and shouldering Bianca. “Real partners, I mean. If you put up the money, you two’ll become a third equal partner, and we’ll split whatever we find three ways. The money for the excavators and guards is what you’ll be contributing, so even if we don’t find anything down there, you won’t lose anything more than the fifty you put in.” Carver gave one last look to Bethany, and when she nodded, he extended his hand. Varric took it with obvious relief. “Now, where do we go, Hawke?”

Carver’s brow drew down. “I thought that was your end of the bargain,” he growled.

“It is, it is,” Varric assured them. “But if either of you get any offers, I’m willing to help out with them, too. Same terms.”

Bethany sucked at her bottom lip. “Maybe Aveline has some more work for us,” she mused.

The mage knew that was the wrong suggestion almost at once. “I wouldn’t take anything from her if she offered to suck my---” He stopped short, blushing furiously, and turned away. “She’s the reason why we’re here, anyhow,” he finished.

“Well,” Bethany ventured, “she did try to help us last year, with that trip near Sundermount.”

“Wait,” Varric interrupted. “You’re saying you’re on personal terms with Aveline? The Aveline?” When Bethany nodded, he went on. “Guard-Captain Aveline?”

“Right,” Carver barked, still turned away from them. “She came over with us, and did some time in the Red Iron, too. Then the bitch turned me down when I applied for a post, even though I helped her become the bloody captain in the first place.”

Bethany suddenly remembered that night all too well, and she got a hollow feeling in her stomach. “And we still have business out in Sundermount,” she said lightly.

Carver turned back around, then, all the colour gone from his face. “That’s right,” he agreed. “Do you...think it’s too late?”

“Better late than never,” Bethany observed.

Varric cleared his throat. “Uh...are you two going to start making sense?”

Bethany blinked and shook her head to clear it. “We...made a promise, to get here,” she explained. “We were to deliver an amulet to the Dalish elves camped out on Sundermount, but we haven’t got the chance, with one thing and another.”

“Do you think they’re even there?” Carver looked from his sister to the dwarf and back again.

“Oh, they’re there, all right,” Varric confirmed. “Those deer-things they keep ran away from them. Without those guys, they don’t have anything to drag their landships around, so they’re stuck.” At the humans’ incredulous looks, he laughed. “What? It’s my business to know these kinds of things.”

Carver gave Bethany another look. “Do you still have it?”

The mage’s heart pounded. “I think so,” she answered. “It’s in the bottom of my trunk.” The false bottom, she thought to herself, but didn’t want to risk airing that, even here.

Her brother glanced over his shoulder to the dwarf. “Feel like taking a side-trip to Lowtown, and then a hike in the hills?”

Varric’s lips curled into a cunning smirk. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Hawke. You can tell me about how you all came over here on the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to clafount, at fanfiction.net, for beta-reading!


	12. Promise Keepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hawkes and their trusty dwarven companion make good on an old bargain too long delayed, and pick up another companion in the process.

A year, or near enough as made no matter, had passed since the First of Clan Sabrae had fallen prey to a spirit’s temptation. Eleven months of inner exile had grown tiresome, even for her; with the way some of her kith grumbled whenever she came near, Merrill feared that they might drive her out of the valley, despite Marethari’s insistence that she remain to guide the ara’vhen. She hoped that didn’t happen---as much for the Keeper’s sake as for her own, since the First was almost certain that Marethari would offer protection. At least until the ara’vhen arrived.

Mindful of the tension her very presence caused, Merrill had done little but read and write and practice her magics. This afternoon, she nestled halfway up the path to Sundermount, well out of sight of her clan...except the archer posted to keep her from approaching the cave to the vir’shiral alone. She sat cross-legged, with a little spirit wisp hovering just over her lap. The First was attempting a complicated hex, which would turn the wisp from its pale green to a deep purple colour; when cast on people, it would give them horrifying waking dreams, giving the caster a chance to make an escape. Such skills would be necessary, after her clan finally got the chance to expel her.

The glowing orb rippled beneath Merrill’s attention, turning from green to a bright, flashing blue. Her brows knitted, but a sudden crunching sound tickled her ears, and the First realised that she wasn’t alone on the path. With a jolt, she banished the wisp back to the Beyond and scrambled to her feet, prepared to weather another disdainful diatribe from one of her kith. The sight which met her eyes was much more shocking, however; two shem’len and a durgen’len, along with a fen’eth. A closer look revealed the beast to be a mabari hound, celebrated of Ferelden.

“What’s the matter?” Asked the tall male shem’len, and when Merrill looked at him, she had to blink away the reflected sunlight from the silver shell he wore. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Be nice,” the female shem’len admonished, throwing the man a long-suffering glance.

Finally, the First found her voice. “You’re quite shiny, aren’t you?” After all three of the others simply stared at her, Merrill realised that she’d made her comment out loud, and felt her cheeks flush. “Oh! I’m sorry. You must be the ara’vhen.” A bittersweet smile tugged at her lips, and she found that the last year had passed far too quickly. “Aneth’ara.”

The durgen’len grunted. “We’re supposed to be the what, now?”

“Some elven gibberish,” the male shem’len said, dismissively. “Are you this first person the Keeper told us about?”

“I am,” Merrill confirmed. For now, she added, almost certainly silently. After a heartbeat, another worry struck her. “I’m so sorry,” the First breathed. “I didn’t ask your names. Unless...” She glanced from the male shem’len to the female. “It’s not...rude, to ask a human their name, is it?” Before either could react, she went on. “I’m Merrill. Which you knew already...I’m rambling. Sorry!”

The man snickered. “Stop bloody apologising, already,” he said, and held out his hand. “I’m Carver,” he informed her. “Carver Hawke.”

Uncertainly, Merrill mimicked the gesture, and she nearly jumped back when Carver took her hand in his. It had been more than a year since anyone had touched her, and more than five since any but the Keeper had done so. “I’m sorry,” she said again, and then winced. “I’m sorry I don’t know any proper greetings,” Merrill explained. “And now I’m sorry for being sorry. Sorry!” Mythal, she was really making a mess of it.

The man, Carver, simply rolled his eyes. “This is my sister, Bethany,” he explained, tilting his head to the woman.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Bethany said, by way of introduction. “I apologise on behalf of my brother. He can be as thick as a tree sometimes.” Merrill found herself relieved when the woman didn’t offer her own hand to clasp. The First sensed the subtle vibration of magic coming from the other woman, and was certain that Bethany recognised it in her, but neither made mention of the fact.

Except for a growl, Carver seemed to ignore his sister’s ribbing. “And this is Varric...he’s an associate of ours.”

Merrill took a second look at the third person. He was shorter than the two shem’len by at least a third, but he held himself as though he stood twelve feet tall. “I’ve never seen a durg---dwarf,” she corrected herself, “until now.”

The shorter man simply nodded, but Bethany spoke up. “Why are you leaving the Dalish for Kirkwall?”

“I am?” It took Merrill half a heartbeat to understand that the Keeper must have told the shem’len to take her away. She’d probably planned to since that night, with the spirit. “I mean, I am!” Swallowing, the First nodded to herself, her stomach aflutter with the prospect. “And...I have to. Let’s leave it at that for now, alright?”

Carver shrugged. “Suits me.” For some reason, he seemed to find her face fascinating, which made her look away with another hinted blush. “You seem awfully nervous, though. Anything the matter?”

The First cast a glance up the path, wondering just how much she should explain. From what she knew of shem’len culture and religion, it was best if they didn’t learn too much of what they’d have to face on the path, and her own involvement in it. “It’s...nothing,” she explained, turning back to them. “I’ve never met a human before, either. Dalish mothers tell stories about you to frighten their children into behaving.” Her eyes widened and she nearly bit her bottom lip off. “Not you, personally, of course! I’m sure they don’t have any tales about you,” Merrill assured them. “Or any scary ones, at least.” The man opened his mouth, but before he could get a word in, she pressed on. “N-not that you aren’t notable enough to have a story...I’ll just shut up, now.”

The dwarf, Varric, picked up where she left off. “Now that we’ve all been properly introduced,” he began, but the mabari cut in with a bark.

“Right,” Merrill mused, turning her attention to the fen’eth. “And who might you be, then?”

A giggle sounded from the woman. “His name’s Barcus,” Bethany let on, and the dog pulled a smug grin.

The name brought a smile to the First’s lips. On a whim, Merrill put out her hand; the halla sometimes let themselves be petted, and she wondered if Barcus was in the mood. In return, the dog slinked closer, rubbing one of its flanks along her leg. The elf stumbled under his weight, and wound up tripping. Before she fell, however, Merrill felt a pair of strong hands close around her shoulders.

“Watch it,” Carver warned her, and the First couldn’t find an answer when she caught sight of those sapphire eyes. For the space of a breath, he held her by the shoulders, not pushing her properly to her feet until his sister cleared her throat. “Sorry,” he gruffed, glancing away once he saw she’d regained her balance.

“That’s...alright,” Merrill allowed. “Thank you. I’m afraid...I’m not very experienced with your kind.” She looked up the mountain path once more. “I’ve spent my life studying the lore of the Dalish, and magic.” She’d delayed enough. “There will be obstacles along the way to the vir’shiral,” Merrill admitted. Best to warn them, even if she was vague. “I can help get us past them.”

Carver stepped up beside her, surveying the winding incline. “We’re going to a versherral?”

Merrill’s laugh surprised her, but she cut it off before it could give her a giggling fit. “Vir’shiral,” she corrected him. “A place where the ancient elves slept, or travelled to the Beyond.” The First bit her lip, regarding the group warily. “Those that have remained won’t sleep peacefully anymore, however.” Not after Marethari had sewn the magical traps into the cairns, at any rate. “We should go,” Merrill advised them. “The path can be treacherous at night, even for the People.”

The human at her side gestured for her to take the lead. With a touch of nerves, Merrill unlimbered her staff and set to walking the pathway, back up the mountain. As she’d suspected, the presence of the shem’len triggered some deep magic on the mountain---either activated by the Keeper or sewn into the soil eons before---and before too long they were all fighting off risen skeletons. When the bones were still once more, Carver looked at her again. “The Keeper didn’t mention you were a mage,” he commented, though the observation held no malice that she could detect...unlike most emotions, Merrill had encountered that one often enough, in the last twelvemonth.

“All Keepers know a bit of old magic,” Merrill replied. “I...would have become the Keeper of this clan, eventually.”

“Right,” Bethany broke in. “She did mention you were her apprentice. We should’ve realised sooner.”

Merrill gave a bit of a shrug. “The stories tell us that all El’vhen once had the gift,” she told them. “But...like so many things, it was lost.” It was unlikely that the two humans and the dwarf were sorely lacking a history lesson in the crimes of the ancient Tevinters, though, so the First shook her head. “It’s a Keeper’s job to remember,” she lamented. “To restore what we can.”

The man looked like he wanted to say something, but when his sister spoke in time with him, he ceded to her. “But don’t the templars seek you out?”

“They can,” Merrill conceded. “But as long as we ignore the cities and towns, and never stay in the same place too long, they don’t usually bother us.”

The other woman’s brows knitted. “And the rest of your people don’t mind? Having to pick up and move, just to protect a few of you?”

Merrill’s lips parted, but she bit back the obvious reply that the El’vhen had tried to settle, in the Dales...but the shem’len elsewhere in Thedas couldn’t countenance a free elven land, and had taken it over in a blood-soaked Exalted March. “Why would we stay in one place?” She asked, instead. As ill-graced as the First was, she knew it was rude to make someone sound foolish in front of their friends. So, instead, Merrill thought of another way to deflect the question. “Once we’ve picked over a hunting ground, there’s no reason to stay.” And then she remembered that she was the reason her own clan would likely remain in the valley, even after she’d gone. A sigh took her, then. “But our clan is in more danger than most, having lost our halla...”

“But if you go to Kirkwall,” Carver pointed out, “you’ll be an apostate in a city full of templars.”

It became too much to face them, for just a moment, so Merrill turned away. “I know,” she whispered, uncertain if they could even hear her. Humans had notoriously poor hearing. “But if I don’t go to Kirkwall...I’ll be alone,” she explained; she’d thought that would be her fate, until these strangers had given her a new one. That helped her regain a bit of her courage, and Merrill regarded them again. “A solitary elf is easy prey for anyone. At least in the city, I can get lost in the crowd...like you, I imagine,” she said, glancing to Bethany. Before the other mage could reply, Merrill pressed on. “We should keep going, though. Asha’bellanar isn’t known for her patience...”

Both of the humans looked at one another with worried expressions, while the dwarf studied everything far too closely, but nobody said anything until the party reached the site of the landslide Marethari had caused. Then the archer stepped from the shadow of the mountain, offering them all a sneer. “So, the Keeper finally found someone to take you from here.”

His name was Lish’a, and Merrill had known him for nearly all of his life, and that made the poison of his tone cut her all the more deeply. “Yes,” she affirmed, hoping the watery feeling in her eyes was an illusion.

Lish’a turned his gaze onto Carver. “Then finish your task quickly, shem’len. We cannot be rid of this one,” he growled that last, pointing to Merrill, “too soon.” Then the man stalked off, back down the mountainside.

The warrior looked taken aback, and then a bit angry. “What’s going on here, Merrill?”

“Nothing,” the First replied, remarking upon the sound of her name in a voice other than Marethari’s. “Just ignorance, and fear.” She turned to the path again. “A landslide blocked the easy path, but there’s a cavern that’ll let us through. Take care.” Once they reached the mouth of the cave, however, a sense of guilt tugged at the First. “I’m sorry,” she said, just before they stepped into the dimness. “You’re not...really seeing the Dalish at our best. We’re good people,” she asserted, though her voice shook with the effort. “Who look out for each other. Just...not today, apparently.”

Both of the humans looked skeptical. It was Carver who spoke up, this time. “Is...there anything we can do to help?”

Merrill looked from his face to the cavern. “It’s kind of you to ask,” she answered, “but I’ll be fine.” Then, mostly to herself, she muttered, “I’ll see it through no matter what they think.” And before the humans could delay her immediate task with further questions, Merrill plunged into the cave’s mouth.

Within, they faced gargantuan spiders who’d been magically primed to attack humans. Merrill did her bit to help, flinging spells and hexes at the creatures, but she was nearly hypnotised by the synergy that the humans expressed while they fought. The warrior sliced into his opponents with overwhelming force, and his sister followed not far behind, freezing and burning with equal measure, while Barcus guarded her flanks. The dwarf hung back, like Merrill herself, and he spared the elf a wry grin when the battle was done.

Another nest fell with similar ease, and soon enough, the five of them emerged onto the higher path. Already the light was weaker, so they would have to hurry to complete their task and make it back through the cavern before full dark.

Yet the barrier which Marethari had erected the previous year held firm, transparent blue energy spanning the gate to the vir’shiral. The Keeper would have known that Merrill wasn’t strong enough to dissipate it, except by making use of the talents which had led to her exile. Perhaps she’d planned it that way, even. With a small shake of her head and a quivering breath, Merrill slunk up to the diaphanous membrane. “I can open the way forward,” she informed them. “One moment.”

Shouldering her staff, Merrill produced a da’mis’u from a concealed sheath at her hip, and before any of her guests could react, the elf cut deeply into the palm of her hand. The sheer force of her life flowed with her blood, and she gathered it into a ball of red mist, combining the energy with her mana. When the ball of arcane energy struck the barrier, it flickered for a moment, and then faded away. Merrill traced a finger over the wound she’d caused, healing it as best she could, and sheathed the da’mis’u before she turned to face the recriminations sure to come.

Bethany looked shocked, but hardly scandalised. “That...I wasn’t expecting that.”

Swallowing, the First sought to put their minds at ease. “Yes, it was blood magic, but...” She glanced over her shoulder, up to the very top of the mountain. “The spirit helped us, didn’t it?”

Carver stepped forward, but to her surprise, he merely shrugged. “That’s true enough, I suppose. Just...be careful, alright?” When she looked at him, Merrill didn’t sense the hostility she’d come to expect, nor even the surprise that his sister’s face had shown.

“I...” She began, but she found she couldn’t finish until she glanced down. “I will,” she promised. “I have been.” When he moved to push past her, Merrill stepped forward, passing through the gates in front of the others. “In the days of Arlathan,” she explained, “the elders came here to sleep. U’then’era, they called it.” With a warning look to the warrior, she moved deeper into the vir’shiral. “They don’t sleep peacefully anymore, though.”

Despite the threads of power Marethari had awoken, the group managed to make it halfway to the altar before the graveyard’s defences came into effect. The corpses of long-dead soldiers and mages rose to join battle once more, and the previous fights on Sundermount seemed children’s squabbles compared to the altercation amongst the cairns. At one point, Merrill could’ve sworn she felt an odd ripple in the Veil when Carver came near to protect her from a Shadow Warrior. They locked eyes, and she saw his own flash red for the briefest instant, but the needs of survival kept her from broaching the question.

When at last the vir’shiral was again at peace, Bethany worked to soothe the injuries they’d all sustained. Merrill couldn’t assist her; she’d only learned enough healing to close her own self-inflicted wounds, and otherwise she had no talent for it. “Are you ready?” She asked the humans, her heart still racing, but not from the fight.

Bethany dug into the front of her chainmail-clad tunic, and worked the amulet over her head. The woman looked relieved to have it from around her neck.

“Place it on the altar,” Merrill told her, dipping her head to the stone slab with the ever-burning flame. “Then I’ll begin the Rite.” Bethany seemed reluctant to approach the place, and backed away quickly once the amulet had been set down. Firming her resolve, Merrill stepped forward, letting the months of practice take over. Her eyes were half-lidded as she recited the Rite for the Departed, and as she finished it, the elf could feel a great power concentrating at the altar.

Merrill nearly fell over in her rush to scramble backwards, for in front of her very eyes, the amulet glowed a brilliant white. Soon its glow spread, spilling over the stone and filling the air. Form took shape, and for a heartbeat, the glow resembled a great winged beast of legend. But when the light dimmed, no less fearsome a sight stood before them upon the altar.

“Ahh,” Asha’bellanar sighed, stepping down from the rock. “And here we are.”

“Holy shit,” the dwarf mumbled, and Merrill’s heart pounded too strongly for her to hear anything else he had to say.

“An’daran atish’an, Asha’bellanar,” Merrill announced, sweeping into a low bow.

The elder made a thoughtful noise. “One of the People, I see,” she observed, not unkindly. “So young and bright. Tell me, child, do you know who I am...beyond that title?”

The First would’ve swallowed, if she’d had any wetness left in her mouth. “I know only a little,” she ventured, still not daring to raise her eyes.

“Then stand,” Asha’bellanar implored her. “The People bend the knee too quickly, of late.”

With a steadying breath, Merrill managed to right herself, though she still did not meet Asha’bellanar’s gaze. The older woman turned to the shem’len. “So refreshing to see someone who keeps their end of a bargain,” she commented. “I half-expected to wind up in some merchant’s pocket.”

“We tried to get here before now,” Bethany said, in a small voice. “We’re sorry we’re so late.”

“It’s true,” Merrill spoke up, hardly able to believe it. When Asha’bellanar looked squarely at her, the First forced herself to continue. “The Keeper mentioned seeing in a dream that the ara’vhen drew close, a year ago...but then duty called them away.”

The woman made another thoughtful noise. “I thank you both for your honesty,” she commended them. “As it happens, I foresaw the potential for delay, and accepted the risk. It may have even turned out to my benefit.”

Carver took a half-step forward. “So...we were carrying you around, all this time?”

Asha’bellanar cocked her head, and when Merrill followed the woman’s stare, she saw the warrior shuffle backwards once more. “Most curious,” the older woman observed. “I wonder...” She paused for the space of a breath, then shook her head, regarding the group as a whole. “To answer your question, you carried a small piece...cast adrift from the whole. A bit of flotsam to cling to, in order to ride out the storm.”

Varric harrumphed. “That doesn’t make any sense, lady,” he pointed out. Merrill saw that he still had his crossbow out, but it was pointed at his feet.

“It does not need to,” Asha’bellanar replied. “Though I am certain you can work it into a fine tale, little man.” She looked to the siblings again. “It seems you’ve made good use of the time that my intercession has granted you thus far. And in turn, you’ve given me a bit of security, should the inevitable occur...which, if I know my Morrigan, it already has.”

“Not that we’re not...grateful,” Carver ventured. “But why did you need us to bring you here?”

The woman’s eyes flashed. “I had...an appointment to keep,” she allowed. “That, and I did not wish to be followed. You smuggled me here quite nicely, and for that I thank you.”

Bethany bit her lip. “Is this ‘Morrigan’ person anyone we should know?”

At that, Asha’bellanar’s face creased with mirth. “She’s a girl who thinks she knows what’s what better than I, or anyone else, for that matter.” The woman shrugged. “And why shouldn’t she? I raised her that way, after all.”

Another harrumph sounded from Varric. “I can’t tell if she’s supposed to be your daughter, or your enemy.”

“Neither can she,” Asha’bellanar conceded. “There is much that none of you will understand,” she said. “Know only that you may have saved my life, this day. Just as I once saved your own.” As she spoke, Asha’bellanar stepped closer to the humans. “An even trade, I think.” Then she turned away, marching halfway back to the altar before regarding them again.

The human mage seemed to gather her courage. “You have plans, I take it?”

Asha’bellanar gave a slight incline to her head. “Destiny awaits us both, dear girl. We have much to do.” She turned halfway away from the group, and looked at them from over her shoulder. “Before I go, a word of advice?” When no one aired an objection, the woman turned her back on them, and put one foot upon the altar she’d so recently sprung from. “We stand at the precipice of change,” she called out. “The world fears the inevitable tumble into the abyss.” Suddenly her voice grew husky, and it must’ve been difficult for the humans to hear, for they both leaned forward. “Watch for that moment, and when it comes...do not hesitate to leap.” Then Asha’bellanar faced them again, her face grave. “It is only when you fall, that you learn whether you can fly.”

“Easy for you to say,” Carver shot back at her. “You can turn into a bloody dragon.”

“An interesting choice of words,” Asha’bellanar replied, “given your attire...and what you did to earn it.” That seemed to steal the warrior’s courage, for he had no response. Instead, the woman turned her golden eyes upon Merrill. “As for you, child, step carefully. No path is darker than when your eyes are shut.”

Merrill’s mouth worked for a few heartbeats, but after a moment she found her voice. “Ma serannas, Asha’bellanar,” the elf managed.

“Now the time has come for me to leave,” Asha’bellanar informed them, stepping closer to the Hawkes. “You have my thanks,” she reiterated. “And my sympathy.” Then she turned back to the altar, and as she climbed upon it, the woman began to glow. In nearly the blink of an eye, what appeared to be a High Dragon had replaced Asha’bellanar. It spread its great wings, and a moment later it was gliding gracefully along the peaks of the Vimmark Mountains.

Merrill’s feet carried her only half-wittingly to the altar, amazement overriding her wariness as she watched the great purple beast sail away through the air. When she turned to the others, though, the familiar susurrus tickled at the edges of her ears, and she worried that the other mage might hear it, too. “Let’s get back,” she forced herself to say. “We should be able to reach the valley before true nightfall, if we hurry.”

Varric sauntered past her when she stepped away from the altar. “Just a second,” he told them. “There are...” A metallic clink sounded. “...eight whole sovereigns here. When did that happen?”

Carver walked over. “If I’d known she was going to pay us for the trouble, I’d have snuck out here a year ago.”

“But then you’d have spent it all at the Blooming Rose by now,” Varric commented. Nevertheless, he handed the gold over to the warrior.

A glance told Merrill that Bethany didn’t hear the whispers, or at least that she didn’t know what they meant, if so. “Can we go now? Please?” The elf met Carver’s eyes, and forced herself to hold his gaze, so that he might see her distress.

“Alright,” he acceded. “Let’s move.”

Together, the group picked their way back through the cave and down into the valley that held Merrill’s adopted clan. The Keeper greeted them at the foot of Sundermount, and pointed out a path that would get them on the road to Kirkwall before midnight. She didn’t spare Merrill a second glance, and when the elf’s feet found the road, she knew she was Marethari’s First no longer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as ever, to the illustrious clafount for her beta-reading skills!


	13. Gardeners' Lament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver checks in on the mage that helped his family repay a debt, and secures the promise of further help in the process.

“You think you can just waltz in here for a noonday stroll, shem?” The elf was tall and thin, with a scar splitting one eyebrow and cheek. Carver couldn’t see any weapons on him, but that didn’t mean the bastard wasn’t armed.

“Look,” the human ventured, putting up a hand. “I’m just here to see a friend of mine. I don’t want any trouble.” It had been a day and a half since he and Bethany had escorted Merrill into the Alienage, and they’d had to fight off some bandits in the process.

The elf arched his scarred brow, but didn’t look apt to back down. “I don’t care what you want. This ain’t your place.” Two of his fellows emerged from the shadows of the alleyway that lay between the Alienage’s great central tree and Merrill’s modest apartment.

Suddenly, Carver regretted leaving his plate behind; he wore the simple sleeveless underpadding and trousers which served well enough as garments in their own right, but were really meant to keep the heavy metal and leather from chafing. The warrior had thought foregoing the Blood Dragon armour would keep him from seeming a threat, but it appeared he’d just given the elves an easy target. “Hey, now,” Carver insisted. “Visiting a friend isn’t a crime.” He took a step back, out of the alleyway, cognisant of the weight of the Blade of the Archon strapped to his back.

“Funny,” the lead elf replied. “Does it look like we’re guards?” He stepped out after Carver, and his cronies followed. All three of them looked young, which meant little enough; Paquis had claimed to be twice Carver’s age, but he’d looked no more than three years the warrior’s senior.

“I don’t want trouble,” Carver reiterated, a bit more forcefully. He raised his right hand this time, showing his palm to the trio of thugs, which also put the hilt of his blade within reach. “You should ask your elder. I saw her the other night.”

A subtle throat-clearing sounded to Carver’s left, which nearly made him jump out of his boots. “Ask me what, child?”

The warrior glanced over, and was half relieved to see the old woman, who Merrill had called a hahren, and had accorded great respect. “I’m just trying to see that Merrill’s settled in, Hahren Nahern,” Carver explained, remembering the woman’s name just in time. She had steel-grey hair and her ears were bent in the middle, which left her age in little doubt.

The Hahren’s eyebrows lifted as she regarded the scene. The three younger elves looked a bit restive, but they remained silent. “Baleon, is it true that you and your friends are harassing this human?”

“He’s walkin’ through here like he owns the place,” blurted out one of the elves behind the one the Hahren had named, a young woman who shot Carver an angry glare. He thought he saw tears glinting in the girl’s eyes, but she turned back to the elder before he could get a proper look.

Hahren Nahern heaved a sigh. “This man has done nothing to merit your ire,” she pointed out. “He merely seeks the company of a friend.”

The elf called Baleon spoke up. “How come we’ve not seen him around before, then?”

Carver snorted. “Because Me...my friend has only just got here,” he told them. Something stopped him from using the woman’s name in front of these strangers.

Nahern either picked up on his suspicion or had her own reasons for being vague. “This boy escorted a new arrival into the Alienage, whom I’ve brought under my care. As long as they remain on good terms, the human is under my protection as well.”

The pronouncement went a long way to dissolving the tension that the three miscreants had built up. Carver swallowed, lowering his hand. “Thank you,” he breathed; the warrior was fairly certain he could’ve acquitted himself well if it came to blows, even against three, but he was glad he wouldn’t have to find out.

“Just take care to keep out of trouble,” the Hahren warned him, before turning back to the elven youths. “Melysa, be kind to an old woman, and visit me for supper.”

The woman to Baleon’s left dipped her head. “I will, Hahren,” she promised.

Baleon inclined his head toward the Hahren as well, but when the elder left them, he grimaced at Carver. “I’ll be watching you, shem,” the elf vowed. “One wrong move...”

“You heard the woman,” Carver replied, his brow twitching. “Now, can I pass? Please?” The request hung in the air for a moment, before the three elves came to an unspoken agreement, and went their separate ways. “About bloody time,” the warrior muttered to himself, and he charged down the alleyway to the nondescript door near the very end.

A moment after he gave the door three sharp knocks, Merrill peeked through a gap in the wooden planks. “Oh!” He heard her muffled voice cry out, and a half-second later she pulled the door open just wide enough for him to duck and squeeze through. “I didn’t think you’d come!”

Carver shut the door behind him and blinked a few times, but still found it difficult to see anything clearly. “I said I would,” he commended, with a shrug. “Er...mind if we put on a bit more light?” He daren’t move, for fear of tripping over something.

“Oh, yes!” Merrill melted into the gloom, and after almost a minute of scrounging around, she set a few more candles to flame, so that Carver wouldn’t have to feel his way around the room. He saw that it was already cluttered with a few books and the detritus of life, including an old cauldron and some other well-used cookware, that Merrill had yet to pack away. “Now let’s find something relatively clean for you to sit on.”

On his own initiative, Carver unstrapped his greatblade and balanced it on a wooden box near the door, and then he took the seat that the elf had produced from somewhere or other. Merrill stood on the other side of the rounded table, fidgeting with her fingers. He saw that the red paint on her fingernails was chipped and faded, probably from cleaning the nearly-derelict place up for much of a night and a day. Before he could speak, however, the elf’s voice trundled on. “Can I offer something for you to eat or drink?” After a blink, but before he could answer, she continued. “I have...water.”

“I’m fine,” Carver demurred. “How are you holding up, Merrill?” He gestured for her to take the seat opposite him.

The elf dithered for a moment, and then nearly collapsed into the rough-hewn chair. “It’s been so strange, surrounded by so many people all the time. The elves all look like children!” When she saw Carver’s raised brow, Merrill giggled. “Only a few of them have vallas’lin,” she explained.

Carver breathed a laugh. “That tells me alot.”

“Oh!” Merrill exclaimed, for at least the third time. “Sorry! It means ‘blood writing’; that’s how we make our facial marks.”

“You paint your faces with blood?” Carver tried to keep his tone even, since he didn’t want her to misunderstand his interest.

The elf shook her head. “The Keeper carves the designs and uses our blood, and maybe some ochres, to colour our skin permanently. It’s a mark of adulthood.”

The warrior shook his head. “Maker,” he exclaimed. “Makes me glad I wasn’t born Dalish. Did it hurt? When you got yours done?”

“Oh, yes,” Merrill admitted, quite cheerfully. “But I didn’t whimper, not even once! I think...” She trailed off, and got a distant look in her moss-green eyes. Carver was reminded, not for the first time, of the elf he’d known as a child...but he dropped the thought when Merrill’s eyes came into focus again. “I think the Keeper was proud of me, that day.”

Carver nearly cuffed himself for reminding her of the woman who’d cast her out. “I’m sorry I brought it up,” he gruffed, looking down at the table. “You probably don’t want to talk about...them.”

“Them, who?” Carver glanced up to see her head tilted inquisitively at him, and then Merrill perked up. “Oh, you mean my clan?” She shrugged. “It’s not as difficult as you might imagine,” the elf said. “I’ve...not exactly had many friends, even in my own clan.”

That roused the man’s interest. “What made you so unpopular with your people?”

The mage got a bit guarded, at that. “Being First to Keeper Marethari,” she intoned. “I was always a bit...secluded. I studied history and magic while the others studied the Vir Tan’adahl.” Merrill glanced into a corner, and Carver followed her line of sight, to what must have been her magical stave. “It’s good that I left,” she commented, after a heartbeat. “I’d have made a terrible Keeper. I’m no good with people.”

Carver swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. “I dunno,” he mused. “You seem to be doing well so far.”

“Oh,” Merrill breathed, and hid her mouth behind her palm. “I don’t think I’ve ever spoken so long with anyone but Marethari since...well, since I came to the clan.”

The warrior tried to ignore the odd fluttering in his stomach. Maybe he should’ve taken that offer of water after all. “That’s...well, I guess I can relate to that,” he admitted, and then he grunted a laugh. “Though in my case, I never had any friends because I was the one without magic.”

“That’s funny!” Then Merrill gasped, covering her mouth again. “I mean, it’s not funny that you never had any friends,” she amended. “I’m sure you were perfectly lovable as a child, and there must’ve been a good reason,” the mage went on. “And...I’ll just shut up, now.”

Carver shrugged. “I lived as a mercenary for nearly two years,” he informed her. “If I got upset that easy, I’d’ve already lost my head by now.” Before the elf could jump to another topic or, Maker forbid, apologise again, he voiced a thought he’d gotten earlier. “Those face marks...the vela-somethings---”

“Vallas’lin,” Merrill corrected him.

The warrior repressed the urge to roll his eyes. “Them, yes,” he went on. “You say the Keeper does them?” At her nod, he continued. “Does she use blood magic as part of it?”

Merrill’s face registered surprise. “No, why would...” Her eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second, and then her expression brightened. “Oh, I see. The name is a bit tricky, isn’t it?” She shook her head. “There is some magic involved, but it’s not blood magic,” the elf explained. “It’s a rite of passage into adulthood, like I said before. If the person whines too much, the Keeper will stop before the ritual is over, and heal everything back to normal until the elf is ready to try again.” Her eyes narrowed again, if only slightly. “Why?”

“I was just wondering,” Carver let on, “how common that kind of magic was with Dalish mages.” He put up his hands, shaking his head a bit. “Not that I have a problem with it!”

The mage’s head tilted again. “Really?”

“Well,” the warrior admitted, “I used to...just like everyone else, I guess. But then I met one,” he said. “A blood mage, I mean. He seemed a decent-enough man.”

“That’s a relief,” Merrill sighed. “The school was lost to us many centuries ago, though there are hints in the lore that it was once commonplace amongst the People,” she told him. “But after so long, shem’---I mean human---influence has made it almost as feared amongst the Dalish as it is by your people.”

“So you really did learn it from a demon?” He knew he should be more wary of that, but his own circumstances made him a poor judge.

Merrill hesitated, turning her head around, so that Carver got the impression that she was listening hard. After a few breaths, the mage nodded. “I got the basics from a spirit on Sundermount,” she admitted. “It’s...not as frightening as you might think,” she went on. “The spirit’s locked away in an idol at the summit of the mountain, bound from the Beyond and from traveling in this world.”

Carver’s brows knitted. “It can’t come after you, then?”

The elf shook her head emphatically. “I didn’t give it a foothold,” she assured him. “And I could only hear it on the mountain, which is another reason I needed to leave.” Merrill contemplated the grain of the table for a moment. “Now that Asha’bellanar’s task is completed, Marethari should be able to leave the valley, and they won’t be in any danger, either. They can find another herd of halla sooner or later, and wander far away from here.”

The warrior knew that she was talking to herself, now, and he wondered if he should go. But he had nothing else to do, and ever since Tiberius’ departure, he’d been left without a mentor to guide him. “How long have you known it, then?” He didn’t want to say the name aloud again, in case Merrill’s paranoia had reason, but curiosity and necessity drove him to keep on the subject.

Merrill thought about the question. “Since about halfway through Solace, by your calendar,” she informed him. “But it’s a lot like any other kind of magic...there are general threads, and specific talents. It’d be easier if I had any guidelines, but the night I dealt with the spirit, the Keeper forbad me treat with it again.” She looked contemplative. “I’ve managed a decent grasp of the basics, though.”

“That’s good,” Carver commented, before he could catch himself. Even he knew how odd it must seem to get complimented for knowing what the Chantry---and apparently even the Dalish elves---regarded as the most dangerous kind of magic.

For possibly the first time, the warrior noted suspicion in Merrill’s expression. “What makes you so curious, Carver?”

His lips parted, but it took the man a long moment to organise his thoughts. Rubbing his neck, Carver managed a sheepish grin. “You remember that person I told you about?” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “The one who changed my opinion on you-know-what?”

The mage nodded. “You said he was a decent man,” she recalled.

“And he was,” Carver affirmed. “Still is, as far as I know, but he’s...gone away. I don’t know when, or if, he’ll be back.”

“That’s a shame,” Merrill lamented. “I might’ve liked to have met him. He probably has some interesting skills.”

Carver chuckled. “You can say that again. He...told me that he knew my father. That he and my father were both in the Tevinter Imperium together, studying under some important mage there.”

Merrill’s eyes widened. “Your father was apprenticed to a magister?”

The warrior shrugged. “I suppose, though Father never told me about it, himself. He’s...dead, now. Since before the Blight.”

A hint of genuine sympathy crossed the elf’s features. “That is a shame. I’d have liked to have met him.”

Carver almost followed her down that road, but just as he opened his mouth, the warrior reminded himself of his purpose. “I think he’d have liked that, from what I know of him, and what Tobrius told me.” At her questioning look, Carver explained. “Tobrius was the one I told you about. Said he was from Tevinter, and that Father came there as a young man from Ferelden.”

“That sounds lovely,” Merrill said, earnestly. “Except for the slaves, of course,” she added. “That...wouldn’t be quite so lovely, now that I think about it.”

Flustered by the interruption, Carver regrouped his thoughts and bulled on. “Anyway, Tobrius and my father learnt...that kind of magic, when they were young. Without a demon, or so he claimed.”

Merrill nodded. “I think that must be true,” she commented. “If a spirit were really required, then the Tevinter Imperium would’ve been overrun by abominations and the like ages ago.”

“Tobrius said something oddly similar, from time to time,” Carver informed her. “We were in the Red Iron together,” he explained. “That first job we met on was supposed to be routine, or even better than, since our object was to scare some peasants into going back to work.”

A frown flickered at the corners of the elf’s mouth. “That doesn’t sound like a very nice thing to do...”

Carver shrugged. “Mercenaries don’t go around picking flowers,” he gruffed.

“That sounds much more fun!” The hinted frown reversed, blooming into a brilliant smile for a few seconds. “But then nobody would pay them, I suppose,” Merrill reasoned.

“Right,” Carver agreed, after a moment’s hesitation. “And it was just a job, or at least it was supposed to be. But when we got to the mine...” The warrior trailed off, thinking back to the hard slog through the dimly-lit passages, with only a mage’s staff and his standard-issue broadsword between him and certain death at the teeth of an adolescent dragon. “There weren’t any workers, there.”

The elf drew in a breath, leaning forward. “What was there, instead?” She seemed child-like, suckling greedily at a story.

Suddenly self-conscious, Carver settled back in his chair, gathering his thoughts. “Dragons,” he said at last. “Lots of small ones, and one middle-sized one, at least according to Tobrius.” A shudder passed over his shoulders. “Of course, judging from how Flemeth looked, he was probably right.” The warrior shook his head. “If I never see a full-sized dragon up close again, I’ll thank Andraste every night.”

Curiosity had grown on Merrill’s face at the mention of dragons, but word of Flemeth made the elf more subdued. “Did you have to kill them all?”

Carver nodded. “Me and Tobrius,” he informed her. “The bastards killed one of our squad, and the other ran off soon after.” The forlorn expression seemed odd on Merrill’s features, pulling at his heart. “I was sorry to do it,” he lied. “But those workers were Fereldans, and they needed to work in the mine to earn a living. Nobody else around here will hire them.”

“Oh,” Merrill said. “I...guess I can understand that. But it’s still a shame, to have to kill such a magnificent creature.”

“I suppose,” Carver admitted. “But that was also...sort of what I came to talk to you about.” Steadying himself with a breath, the warrior tried to sort out how to put his experience into words. “Once the dragon was dead,” he began, “Tobrius made me an offer.”

The elf’s brow quirked. “What kind of an offer?”

“There weren’t any demons involved,” Carver explained, in a bit of a rush. “At least...he said there weren’t.” The warrior swallowed, and when he spoke again, it was so low that he wasn’t sure even she could hear. “But he...used the dragon’s blood, to teach me...blood magic.”

Silence reigned in the hovel’s main room for well over a minute, and each second, Merrill’s face seemed to lose a bit of credulity. Finally, her voice broke over his ears, in a very faint whisper. “What did you say?”

A cold sweat broke out on Carver’s neck, memories of the ritual mingling with the fear of Merrill’s rejection. “He prepared a large measure of the dragon’s blood,” the warrior forced himself to say. “Fortified it with a bit of his own, and with some lyrium dust. And then I...drank it.”

The silence was shorter-lived, this time. “What happened then?”

“I...can’t really explain it,” Carver admitted. “I fell into a trance. Saw some confusing visions, woke up with a fever.”

“Elgar’nan,” Merrill breathed. “And you can...do it? Summon your blood to your will?”

Carver dipped his head. “A little,” he said. “Tobrius said that it would’ve been better with a mature dragon, or even a High Dragon,” the warrior explained. “But he got me to sensing the blood in other people, when I concentrate, and in battle sometimes I can use my own blood to make myself stronger and faster, or to weaken my foes.”

“I think I saw that,” Merrill whispered. “On Sundermount, before we summoned Asha’bellanar.”

The warrior gave a curt nod. “I couldn’t think of any other way to end the fight,” he admitted. “I don’t think Bethany noticed, though.” He sighed. “Tobrius helped me hone it, but we only got a few minutes a week to ourselves, really. It happened not long after you had your little sit-down on the mountaintop, but I’d bet you’re loads farther ahead of me.”

Merrill blinked rapidly. “This...but this is amazing! There’s nothing in the lore or any of the histories about a mundane learning any kind of magic at all.”

“Tobrius told me that some Tevinters think their Old Gods gave men magic with dragon’s blood in the first place,” Carver pointed out. “This was an experiment, he said. I don’t think it worked like he hoped it would, but it wasn’t all for nothing, either.”

“Oh, you’ve got to show me!” Far from being scandalised or horrified, as he suspected Bethany would react, Carver was relieved to hear innocent excitement in Merrill’s voice. She dug out the same dagger he’d seen her use on the mountainside, and stuck it point-first into the centre of the table. “Please, Carver,” she very nearly begged. “I want to see you do it.”

Thrown by this unexpected enthusiasm, Carver grabbed the knife and sat up straighter in his chair. “Alright,” he acceded. “I’m going to try a move that Tiberius taught me. If I were any good, it would make your blood boil in your veins and come out your eyes and ears, but you’ll probably just feel a light tickle.”

Merrill’s face became serious, and she nodded firmly. “I know the spell you speak of,” she informed him. “And how to block it, in case you’re stronger than you think you are.”

“Good,” Carver commented. He lay the blade on his palm, and then hesitated. “Er...can you heal decently?”

The elf bit her lip. “Only a little,” she admitted. “Enough for minor cuts, so don’t go too deep.”

The warrior nodded, and moved the blade halfway up his forearm, where a scar might be more easily written off. Steeling himself with a breath, Carver sliced into the meat of his arm, and felt a subtle whisper of power at the sight of his lifeblood welling in the wound. Closing his eyes, the man could hear his own heartbeat; as he concentrated, Carver discerned a second, much fainter to his senses. His face twisted in concentration, and he stuck out his injured arm toward Merrill, using the limb to channel his energy. His veins tingled as he sensed the elf’s lifeblood flowing securely in her veins, and he recalled Tobrius’ patient lessons, the man’s clipped voice echoing in the recesses of Carver’s mind. With all of his might, Carver pulled...

A cry escaped the warrior’s lips as he was thrown backward, and he hit the back of the chair with such force that the whole apparatus collapsed, sending him tumbling onto the floor. “Maker’s balls,” he swore, looking wildly around the room for any attackers, the dagger still within his grasp.

“Sorry!” Merrill hopped up and did her best to help him get to his feet. When Carver stood steadily again, she regarded him evenly. “It is official, though,” she breathed, unable to contain a little grin. “You’re a blood mage!”

“Not so loud!” The man looked from left to right, still jumpy. “Does that mean you reversed that...spell?”

The elf had clapped a hand over her mouth at his admonition, but she nodded frantically. “I felt the pull in my veins,” Merrill informed him. “It wasn’t too strong, but if I hadn’t blocked it, you certainly would’ve done some damage.”

A mixture of horror and relief flooded Carver’s insides. He’d known, at least on an academic level, that Tobrius’ work had changed him...but now he had proof. Part of him was scared out of his wits, worried about his soul, not to mention his earthly fate should anyone ever discover his secret. But Merrill’s giddy acceptance was infectious, and Carver couldn’t pin down his own smile. “Still not a very good one,” he commented. “Do you think you could help me with that?”

“Oh, I’d love to,” Merrill assured him. “But let me get you healed up, first...and then...can we go get some food?” She blinked up at him, her eyes wide. “I’ve not eaten since before I met you, what with one thing and another, and I’m getting pretty peckish.”

A laugh took him, then. “Yes, we’ll damn me to the Void, right after we grab some lunch.”

 


	14. Close Shave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Rivaini pirate, Isabela, makes the Hawkes' acquaintance...and talks them into helping her find what she lost, even if they don't yet know the extent of what it cost her.

Damn, the pirate cursed to herself, knocking back her cup of piss-tasting ale. Damn the lot of them. A quick glance over her shoulder told Isabela that Lucky and two of his skulking scallions had entered the Hanged Man, but she pretended not to notice in hopes that they’d bugger off to hound-dog someone willing to listen. She had plans for tonight that she couldn’t afford to be late for.

Just her luck, the boy and his pals beat a path right up to the bar, where Isabela had so recently been enjoying an evening of drinking. Alone. As she’d done nearly every night for almost four months, ever since her ship had broken up on the reefs off the Wounded Coast and she’d lost everything she’d ever loved. And the sodding relic, she reminded herself, just as Lucky stepped up behind her right shoulder.

“You been scarce this week,” he observed. “Our arrangement just up and slip through that sieve between your ears?”

The former captain poured herself another drink, rolling her eyes in his direction as she tossed it down her throat. It lacked the sweet sting of rum, but it would do. She saw the battered hilt of a sword poking out over the boy’s shoulder, and could imagine that his friends were similarly armed; the pirate suppressed a smirk. She could take three, even half-drunk as she was. “We agreed to exchange coin for good information,” she reminded Lucky, before turning her back on the lot of them.

He was obviously too thick to take the hint. “You owe us, Isabela,” Lucky sneered, leaning in so that she could smell the cheap spirits on his breath. At least her reputation had earned her that much.

“I’ll tell you what,” Isabela countered, draining the last of the bottle into her mug and swishing it around. “Since the information you gave me was worth nothing,” she growled, “that’s what I’ll pay you.” Her heart fluttered when he pushed off of the bar, apparently displeased with her counter-offer.

Just as she moved to drink the last of her ale, Lucky’s hand came down on the cup.“Me and my boys’ll get our money’s worth, bitch,” he vowed.

Well, I tried to warn them, Isabela told herself, barely containing her smirk. Instead of bristling, however, the pirate let the boy’s palm rest heavily on the back of her hand while she slithered close enough that he could feel her breath tickling his jaw. “Oh, you poor, sweet thing,” she cooed, licking over her lower lip.

Just when Lucky hesitated, the pirate struck into action. A quick grasp to his wrist released her right hand, and she torqued his arm so quickly that his head slammed into the old oak of the bar with a firm knock. The ale must have gone to her head, however, for as Isabela exulted in her victory, one of Lucky’s thugs grabbed her from behind. The other was already picking up a half-full bottle of port, so the pirate had to act fast.

A quick headbutt saw the man’s arms loosen about her, and Isabela writhed away at the last second, so Number Two’s bottle struck home right in Number One’s face. Number Two looked shocked as his friend fell to the floor, so the pirate took advantage by slugging him in the throat and sternum. Her knee planted in Number Two’s crotch, sending him reeling backward into a thick wooden pillar, and from the corner of her eye Isabela caught sight of Lucky recovering his wits.

The glimmer of steel brought the pirate’s attention into focus, but before Lucky could draw more than two inches of his blade, Isabela had Backstabber’s honed point nestled at the crook of his jaw. “Tell me, Lucky,” she purred over the groans of his companions. “Is this worth dying for?” She fancied she could hear his stubble protesting as her dagger nestled closer. A not-insignificant part of the pirate was disappointed when the indecision on Lucky’s face turned to outright fear, but she let the bastard leave with his life, if not without his dignity. “I didn’t think so,” she breathed with a hearty chuckle, and the woman enjoyed watching the three battered men stumble from the pub in shame.

Isabela’s eyes caught on the doorway; judging by the frustrated expression on the boy’s face who filled it, she guessed that he must’ve run straight into Lucky just outside. A quick glance at his spotless off-white shirt told her that Lucky must have lived up to his name, though. A longer glance at the thick pair of arms which the shirt entirely failed to cover took the pirate’s mind off of the witless bastard who’d nearly ruined her evening, even if the sight of the well-muscled stranger did little to quench the heat that the all-too-brief fight had drummed up within her.

He really was little more than a boy, she mused as she watched him walk deeper into the bar. Probably seven or eight years her junior. The thought brought her back to the Call, and the crewmen she’d lost, either to the waves or to the winds afterward. She very nearly said Casavir’s name aloud, and was on the cusp of turning to order up another bottle of swill when she noticed that the well-muscled stranger was not alone. A woman trailed a half-step behind him, wearing red chainmail over simple clothes and carrying the strangest-looking walking stick she’d ever seen. When the pirate spied the magnificent hound at the girl’s feet, something clicked. “Hang on,” Isabela mumbled. “I’ve heard of them...”

Then it came to her, like a spear to a whale. “Ahoy,” Isabela called out, gesturing at the two. “Fancy a drink?” Before they could answer, she looked at the bartender. “Three whiskeys,” she barked. “Decent ones, mind. From the back.” She had to give him a stare, and the pirate made a job of re-sheathing Backstabber, but the man finally huffed and disappeared into the stockroom. Isabela was pleased to see the boy and girl had taken the bait when she turned around, though. “My,” she sighed, taking another gander at the boy’s well-built shoulders. “And here I thought the only men in this place were besotted fools who couldn’t hoist the mainsail.”

The boy preened, just a little bit, but still managed to look annoyed. “Do I have you to thank for that gibbering idiot who plowed into me, cursing about that sodding pirate whore?”

“Isabela,” the pirate introduced herself, just as the barkeep plopped three half-full cups of amber onto the wood. “Previously ‘Captain Isabela’,” she informed them. “Sadly,” the woman sighed, “without my ship, the title rings a bit hollow. Do sit down and have your drinks.”

The boy seemed eager enough, but his companion looked more cautious. “Can we help you?” She asked, glancing suspiciously about them.

The pirate fixed the girl with a smirk. “If your last name’s ‘Hawke’, sweetling, I’m hoping you can.” With a shrug, she picked up her cup and took a healthy sip, letting the fire fill her mouth before she swallowed it down.

Rather than reassure the girl, however, Isabela’s innocent comment served to make the boy even more suspicious. “How do you know who we are?”

“I don’t,” she replied with a shrug. “You hear things around town, though. It’s not every day somebody slays a dragon, you know.” Or survives the dismantling of a mercenary crew, she added, mentally.

That seemed to placate the boy’s paranoia, at least mostly. “I’m Carver,” he allowed, and tilted his head to the girl. “This is my sister, Bethany.” A short bark from the hound made him roll his eyes. “And this beast’s called Barcus. You said you needed us to help you out?” He planted himself on the stool beside her, taking care to keep his shouldered sword from jostling the bar. With obvious reluctance, his sister followed his lead.

“First,” Isabela prompted them, “you can help me by drinking my whiskey.” She finished hers, hissing under her breath. “It’s more piss than vinegar, but you should taste what they usually serve here.”

Carver took up his mug and threw its contents down his throat. He impressed her by lasting all of three heartbeats before it tried to claw its way back up again, and the boy gripped the solid oak of the bar to steady himself. “By the Void,” he swore. Then he flashed her a grin. “Got any more of those handy?”

“Afraid not,” Isabela replied. “But there could be some coin in it for you, if you’re of a mind.”

“You can have mine,” the girl, Bethany, called from the other side of her brother. Isabela could hear the distaste in her voice, but she liked to think it was because Bethany’d sipped the liquor and found it wanting.

Carver shared a glance with his sister and took her drink. “We might need some gold,” he conceded, taking a more measured drink of the whiskey. His face twitched, but he held his peace. “Depends on what needs doing, and how much you’re offering.”

“Three sovereigns,” the pirate exclaimed. “For one night’s work. One up-front, and two when it’s done.” Assuming she could scrounge at least a sov’s worth of loot from Hayder’s dead body, she’d be able to manage that.

The boy made a pretense of considering the offer for longer than Isabela expected, but a few whispered words from Bethany ended his stone-faced silence. “What do we need to do?”

Isabela took a deep breath. “There’s...someone from my past who’s been pestering me.” The right-pinky-finger to one of the deadliest crime lords on the ocean, she might have said, but the pirate didn’t want them to find that out until it was too late. “I’ve arranged for a duel--if I win, he leaves me alone.” Forever, she thought. “But I don’t trust him to play fair. I’ll need someone to watch my back.”

Carver cocked a brow and finished Bethany’s drink. “Who is this person?” For a kid barely old enough to shave, he held his liquor well. Isabela had to give him that.

The pirate shrugged. “His names Hayder,” she told them. “We...worked together, back in Antiva.” By which she meant that they terrorised Orlesian silk-traders and Antivan fishmongers out of their hard-earned wares. But these two didn’t need to know that, at least not yet. “He never liked me, though,” Isabela went on, not bothering to tell them why. “He’s been sniffing around Kirkwall for a couple of months, asking around for me. I thought I’d get it over with, and meet him face-to-face.”

Isabela’s stomach tightened. She knew she was taking another gamble; Hayder could match her offer ten times over, just for the chance to stab her in the back. The pirate might be able to take on three young thugs without two brains to share between them, but taking on a dragonslayer and his probably-apostate sister would be a question of survival, rather than triumph. A doubtful question, at that. However, instead of asking about a bounty, Carver’s jaw set. “Did you make those three pups the same offer?”

The pirate stifled a laugh. “Of course not,” she shot back. “I asked Lucky to help me track down something I lost,” she explained...barely, at least. “But they failed to do it.” That was true enough. “But it’s nothing to worry about, anyway.” That wasn’t true at all, but Isabela pressed ahead. “This duel is much more important.”

Carver seemed satisfied by her answer, but curiosity got the better of Bethany. “Why a duel, though,” she wondered.

Isabela chuckled, fixing the girl with a glance. “I like duels,” she stated with a shrug. “It’s what I do. Plus,” she continued, “if I win, he’ll be dead.” The whiskey let that slip out, but it didn’t seem to ruffle the Hawkes’ feathers too much. Isabela snarked again at that image and shook her head. “Problem solved!”

Evidently, the pirate had won the siblings over, for Carver held out his hand. “It sounds like we have a deal,” he breathed. His grip was every bit as strong as it looked, too, and Isabela couldn’t help imagining those fingers somewhere other than her own hand. What with one thing and another, she’d had far too little time to indulge herself, lately.

The pirate let the thought drop when Carver kept his hand out, and when he coughed pointedly, Isabela recalled the promised payment. “Right,” she conceded. Without a second thought, the woman shoved her hand down the front of her bodice, retrieving the small purse she kept nestled beneath her breasts. The boy and girl both blushed nearly as scarlet as the handle of Carver’s sword, but his embarrassment didn’t seem to keep him from taking a good look at the size of her purse.

“You sure you’ve got three sovs in there?” He took the single golden coin she produced, and didn’t look away when she tucked the little leather bag down her front once more.

“I’m certain I don’t,” Isabela admitted, shrugging her shoulders. “But you’ll get it. I promise.” She would even try to keep it, too.

The boy’s eyes lingered on her chest for a half-second after she’d stowed the last of her coin, but then Carver swallowed and refocused his gaze further up. “I think I could watch your back,” he allowed, and then hissed when his sister’s elbow met his ribs.

A laugh tore from Isabela’s throat, and she eased herself from her bench. “I’ll bet,” she assured the boy, giving him a slow wink. “I’ve arranged to meet Hayder in Sycamore Plaza in Hightown, after nightfall. Do you know how to get there?” Brother and sister both nodded. “Good,” she told them. “I’ll meet you there. Until then, I’ll be in my room...”

The pirate could hardly contain her mirth at the mixture of want and shame that trickled into both of their expressions, though she noted that Bethany averted her gaze more quickly and blushed just a shade more furiously. Interesting, Isabela noted, as she turned to saunter away.

“Let’s go and tell Varric,” she heard Carver say to his sister, and the din of other patrons’ conversation washed out Bethany’s reply.

Neither of them took the bait and followed her up to her room, but Isabela was perfectly content to entertain herself for a couple of hours. By the time dusk rolled on, she’d worked out the weeks’ worth of frustration to the best of her considerable ability, and she gave herself enough time to ensure Backstabber and Heartbreaker were both of a form to clash with Hayder’s Razor. The pirate made Sycamore Plaza just as the last light of day faded beyond the Western hills, and she paused at a gap in the buildings to watch the purple sky fade to black. Over the open ocean, the sky would already be blanketed by an uncountable sea of stars, but in the city, only a few dozen twinkled overhead.

Of course, Isabela didn’t actually enter the plaza all alone, even as full dark cloaked the streets in shadow. Instead she waited in a convenient alley, wondering just how many people Hayder would bring with him...if indeed he deigned to come at all. Movement at the other end of the alley drew her attention, and the pirate flattened herself against a wall until a small group came into focus.

“...sure this was the right place?” The question was muffled, but sounded like it came from a dwarf.

The answer did much to settle Isabela’s racing heart. “She said Sycamore Plaza,” came the sound of Bethany’s voice. “I hope we’re not too late.”

“I’m sorry,” another unfamiliar voice called out, lilting heavily. “Coming to the Alienage probably slowed you down.”

“It’s fine,” Carver said with finality, just as he came into focus. “She’ll be here.”

The pirate stepped out of her shadow not five paces in front of the Hawke siblings, a grin hitching on her lips. “And here she is,” she said, pleased by the gasps her sudden appearance elicited. “Who’re your friends?” She saw that Bethany wore the same armoured clothes as she had in the tavern, but her brother had dressed up for the occasion, in shining plate that glowed red in places.

Carver visibly relaxed, stepping aside to reveal a tall, lithe elf with spindly tattoos on her face who wore a patchwork tunic over rusted chainmail. “This is Merrill,” he announced.

Isabela was pleased to feel the elf’s eyes devour her from the soles of her boots to the top of her bandana, but Merrill’s gaze lacked the kind of hunger that the pirate normally associated with such a stare; the elf seemed more curious than anything. “Charmed,” Isabela managed.

Bethany inclined her head to their remaining companion, a dwarf in what passed for a long coat and thick-soled boots, with hints of proper armour on his shins. The scant moonlight revealed a naked chin and chest, though, that Isabela made a note to inspect more thoroughly later. The dwarf stepped forward. “Varric Tethras, madam,” he introduced himself, with a small bow. “And Bianca,” the man added, hefting a wicked-looking crossbow. “At your service.”

The elf, Merrill, was taken with a fit of giggles. “Isn’t she just gorgeous?”

Isabela very nearly preened herself, but then she noticed the elf’s eyes were directed at the dwarf’s weapon. “Yes, well,” the pirate allowed, “I’ll tell you what I think once we settle our business with Hayder.”

Varric nodded. “Let’s get this over with.” She couldn’t see the look in his eyes, but his tone told her that he, at least, had some idea about the man they were dealing with.

Without another word, the pirate turned heel and stalked into the plaza. She hadn’t made it ten metres before a hard-bitten woman stepped out of a shadow of her own. “There’s the wench,” the woman announced to her shadowed associates. “Gut her!”

Isabela found her daggers in her hand before she could blink, and she had no thought for mercy as she closed in on her assailant. The woman was quick, but Isabela was quicker; the pirate danced beneath her opponent’s shorter dagger and slipped Backstabber through a joint in the woman’s armour, just beneath her kidney. A twist ensured the wound would be fatal, but not immediately so, and it also meant that Backstabber stuck in the woman’s flank when Isabela had to roll away to dodge someone’s shortsword.

Sounds of clashing steel rang throughout the plaza, and the pirate’s boots skipped over the flat stones as the hired swords sought to catch up with her. Armed with Heartbreaker in her left hand, Isabela parried another sword-swing, dodging rightward just before the helmed man was encased in frost. She heard Bethany call from behind her, “Get back!”

The rogue didn’t need further encouragement to retreat into a convenient shadow, but before the three bandits could re-group, a whirling orange cloud formed over their heads, raining great gobs of fire all around them. “Shit,” Isabela muttered, when the woman she’d stabbed took a ball of flame right to the head. Miraculously, though, Backstabber remained untouched by the fire...though all three killers lay dead. After a bit of wrenching, Isabela managed to free her right-hand blade, and turned to survey the plaza.

More than a dozen bodies lay haphazardly about the square, more than a few of them shorn of limbs or heads, and most feathered by a few crossbow bolts. “I could’ve taken these three,” the pirate boasted when she drew nearer to Bethany, but before anyone could make an answer, something of the captain returned to Isabela’s demeanor. “Loot the bodies,” she instructed them. “I need to find out where the bastard is.”

Holed up in the Chantry, it turned out. As if that would keep her from finding him, the barnacle-biter. Isabela and her escort had to carve their way through another group of hired thugs on the grand steps of the Chantry itself, but they found the building wonderfully guardless, the air still stinking of incense.

Hayder’s ugly face took form from the shadows in front of the cathedral’s main altar. “Isabela,” he called out. “I shoulda known you’d find me here.” The hilt of his Razor poked up from over his shoulder, and he had a whole squad of underlings backing him up. They had the look of the Armada about them, too, unlike the poor sods who’d fallen so easily before.

“Tell you men to burn your letters next time,” the pirate scoffed. As if there’ll be a next time.

The man ignored her advice. “Castillon was heartbroken when he heard about the shipwreck,” he informed her. She heard the dwarf’s breath intake sharply, but neither Varric nor anyone else on her side of the room made any other sound. “You should’ve let ‘im know you survived.”

Isabela took a single step forward. “Must’ve slipped my mind,” she observed with a bit of a shrug.

Hayder gave a sinister chuckle. There was plenty of hunger in his eyes when they swept over her, but it wasn’t the kind that sent shivers up her spine. “Where’s the relic?”

“I lost it,” the pirate retorted, her brows arching dangerously. “Castillon’s just going to have to do without.”

“Lost it?” Hayder’s eyes went wide in mock-innocence. “Just like you lost a ship full o’ valuable cargo?”

The game was getting boring, now. “They weren’t cargo, Hayder,” Isabela hissed. “They were people.”

“Those slaves were worth an ‘undred sovs a head,” the brigand shot back. “And you just let ‘em scurry off into the Wilds.” He clicked his tongue. “And now the relic’s gone, too. Castillon wasn’t too happy to hear that.”

Before Isabela could tell him just exactly how much she cared about Castillon’s state of mind, Carver stepped up beside her to survey the man she’d hired him to help her kill. “Will someone explain what’s going on, here?”

Hayder barked. “Isabela’s been a very naughty girl,” he sneered. “Ruined a perfect business deal, and then disappeared into the stew of shit this place calls Lowtown to keep from answering for it.” He cocked a brow. “She didn’t tell you?”

“I told him enough,” Isabela broke in. “I said I’d arranged for a duel, which I did.” A glance let her know that Carver was more suspicious of Hayder than her...at least for the moment. “I also said you wouldn’t play fair,” she went on. “Which you didn’t.” The pirate risked sharing a fuller look with Carver. “I can tell you more later, if you want. Right now we have more important things to attend to.”

Something set in the boy’s face, and Isabela dared to hope that her gamble would pay off. “This Castillon character’s going to have to get used to losing business partners,” Carver gruffed, reaching up for his own sword.

“There’s only one way to settle this,” Isabela agreed. Half a heartbeat later, Heartbreaker twirled gracefully across the gap, lodging in the sternum of the woman to Hayder’s left. Carver bulled forward, demanding Hayder’s attention, which freed the rest of the group to deal with the two-dozen scallywags he’d brought with him.

After Isabela managed to retrieve her dagger, she lost herself in the thrill of battle. Hot blood splashed across her face as she lanced and parried, stabbed and rolled. It was the third-best feeling in the whole world, seeing her enemies to their deaths at her blades. Though outnumbered four-to-one, if you counted the dog, the rag-tag band the Hawkes had brought together seized the night beneath the bronzed statues of the great hall. In the end, the Razor proved no match for Carver Hawke’s sword, and Hayder would not rise to report on Isabela’s whereabouts.

Which might serve as its own sort of confirmation to Castillon, the pirate realised. “Thank you,” she breathed, licking a bit of the bandits’ blood from her lips. “Castillon won’t hear about me from Hayder, but he’ll find me eventually...” Normally, Isabela refused to think that far ahead, but lately her life had left her with little to distract her from her long-term problems. “I guess I’m just going to have to get him the relic,” she admitted. “It’s as simple as that.”

Varric paused in his attempts to retrieve crossbow bolts from one of the corpses. “You could’ve just told this guy that, you know. Now Castillon’s going to be pissed off, and he’ll be looking for anyone who had anything to do with his friend’s demise.”

Carver looked from the dwarf to the pirate. “Who is this Castillon character, anyway?”

Isabela bit her still-bloodied lip. “He’s a high-ranking member of the Felicisima Armada,” she allowed. “I used to do some good work for him, back in the day. He paid well!” Her tongue worried at the back of the stud beneath her lower lip; it was one of the pieces of jewellery she’d stolen on a job for the man.

Bethany came closer. “Until this business about slaves, that is,” she pointed out.

The pirate heaved a sigh. “Yes, well...” Rolling her eyes, Isabela tried to explain without remembering. “Back during the Blight, he hired me to provide a bit of security for a shipment from Denerim to Antiva. I was to split the spoils with the captain, and keep the fees from my own cargo.” She grimaced, glancing downward. “Halfway there, I got an itching feeling way down deep.” The dwarf’s chuckle earned him a sharp glance, but Isabela forged ahead. “Boarded the ship, and found out that the other captain had a load of refugees...except they were in chains. Men, women, elves...” Her eyes caught on Merrill, and she spared the elf a tight smile. “Children even. Even I know that’s wrong.”

None of them had a rebuke for that, but Carver looked deep in thought. “So...this relic has something to do with that?”

“I was supposed to fetch it for Castillon, as repayment for his shipment.” And his favoured captain...and the crew. But she didn’t mention what she’d done to them, just in case. “Honestly, though, I just think he wants me dead. And before you ask, I don’t really know what the relic is...just that it’s old, and worth my weight in gold.” That was true enough, since she couldn’t read the first word in the book. “It was lost in the shipwreck, but I have a notion that it’s made it into the city.”

“So,” Bethany ventured, “you hired that ‘Lucky’ bloke to find out more about where it is?”

The pirate nodded. “He claimed to know everything worth knowing in Kirkwall,” she sighed, and shared Varric’s snarked laugh. “He lied.” Which she couldn’t blame him for, honestly...and that’s why she hadn’t wanted to kill him. “But I’ll still need it, to get Castillon off my back.”

Another long glance passed between the Hawkes, and they seemed to come to some kind of nonverbal agreement. “If getting the relic can keep Castillon from making your life difficult,” the warrior allowed, “then we’ll help you find it.”

“I still don’t know where it is,” Isabela assured them, which was the truth. “But you’ll be the first to hear anything if I find out.” Which was probably the truth. “Anyway, thanks again for helping me deal with Hayder. You can take what you want from his corpse, which should be more than enough to settle up our debt.” When neither of them had any objection, Isabela breathed a silent sigh of relief, and took another look at the mismatched band. “You all look like you could get into some fun,” she observed. “So I think I’ll tag along for awhile...see if there’s anything I could do for you.” The heels of her boots clicked as she strutted closer to the siblings. “And I’ll be in my room at the Hanged Man if you’re interested in...company, later,” she breathed, and nearly snickered to herself as she turned and sauntered away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as ever, to clafount for her encouragement and support. Check her out on fanfiction.net!


	15. The Cartographer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver, Bethany, and company need to find a way into the Deep Roads. Varric has just the man for the job, but it won't come easy for the Hawkes.

 

The round table was filled with papers, but Varric shuffled most of them into an unkempt pile to one side. Carver sat back in a chair, propping one foot on the table's rim, and he plopped five sovereigns down onto the table. "Where does that leave us, dwarf?"

The short man fondled the gold coins contemplatively. "Definitely getting close," he said. "It'd help if you made nice with the new Guard-Captain and let her toss you some work. The gangs are getting restless at night, and Daisy keeps wandering through Lowtown under the moonlight..."

Carver's lips twitched, half in amusement at the elf's antics, and half in frustration at the prospect of dealing with Aveline again. "I'll think about it," he allowed. "Meantime, we could just start clearing out the streets together after dark. That's gotta be cheaper than paying off thugs."

"Says you," Varric shot back, chuckling. "You don't have to deal with the Coterie."

The warrior shrugged. "True enough." The dwarf slid a cup of wine toward him, which he took and sipped with gratitude. "So, where  _do_  we stand?"

Varric rubbed his stubbled chin. "Money's good. We're just about fifteen sovereigns short of our target-helping the viscount's son out of that mess with the Winters has definitely raised your profile, too, so more work should head our way soon. But," he cautioned, leaning forward. "We have...another problem."

Carver's brow twitched. "What is it now?"

"My brother and I are missing two key ingredients to get this scone in the oven," the dwarf let on. "One is money, which we're racking up even more quickly than I'd hoped. The other, though..." He heaved a sigh. "We need to find a way into the Deep Roads. A good entrance is vital."

The warrior took a deep breath; his mounting frustration normally would have made him angry, but Isabela had told him that he needed to  _lighten up_...just because he'd killed a dragon and a few dozen miscreants was no excuse to mope around. So, exhaling with a sigh, Carver swallowed his irritation. "Do we have a bad entrance?"

The businessman chuckled. "Bartrand thought he had a decent cave lined up, but it was a bust. There is something you might be able to do for us, however."

"Oh?" Carver swallowed the rest of his wine. "Should I trade my sword for a spade and start digging?"

That earned him a roll of Varric's eyes. "You really ought to leave the jokes to the Rivaini, Junior," he teased. He wouldn't let Carver live down being ten minutes younger than Bethany. "Rumour has it," the dwarf went on, "there's a Grey Warden in town, from Ferelden no less. He's been helping out Lirene, over at the import shop."

The woman had scraped together some silver to pay for some protection on a delivery, so Carver knew her. "How'd he get in?"

"Beats me," Varric shot back. "But the guard's been...more accepting, since a certain someone took over, and the Blight's been ended. Less pressure from refugees." He leaned back in his chair. "All I know is that this guy may be able to help us," the dwarf continued. "The Grey Wardens forge into the Deep Roads all the time. He's bound to know how to get into them, even from here...or put us into contact with someone who does."

A pit opened in Carver's stomach. "Do you think he'll know about Athadra?" He'd been trying not to think of the elf ever since he'd started spending so much time with Merrill, but curiosity got the better of him, now.

Varric considered. "Well, I know that he's Fereldan, and there weren't too many Wardens left after Ostagar...so it's possible. Does that mean you'll check him out?" When Carver offered a shrug, the dwarf  _hmphed_. "Other than looking around every cave in the Vimmark Mountains until we get lucky, I don't see a better opportunity. And if we don't act fast, we'll have a big, fancy expedition...and nowhere to go."

"Alright," Carver conceded. "Beth and I'll go shake-down Lirene for some information. We're Fereldans, too, so she should help us."

"The sooner the better, Hawke," Varric said, and Carver knew by the use of his surname that the dwarf was serious. "I'll be in all night, in case you need me."

* * *

The boy was as close to death as Anders had ever seen; run ragged in the Bone Pit by an unscrupulous Orlesian, who was one of the few employers willing to take on Fereldan workers, the child had been crushed in two by an overturned mining cart. Andraste knew how they kept him breathing long enough to get to Darktown-the diagnostic spells alone were so agonising to the mage that he nearly forgot the injustice that had led to the boy's working in the mines in the first place.

But after three hours of intensive spellwork, Anders managed to set the boy's ribs and pelvis to rights. It took nearly all of the mana and much of the lyrium the mage possessed, but it was worth it when the boy's eyes opened and he gasped for breath. The parents were beside themselves with relief, offering their last coppers in compensation, but Anders just waved them away... he had important work to do in this city, and fleecing desperate refugees would run counter to that goal.

He leaned heavily upon his staff, gripping a metal beam with his free hand to keep himself from collapsing. Somewhere in the fog of exhaustion, however, Anders sensed the tickle of mana drawing nearer. Despite his weariness, or perhaps because of it, the mage felt a surge of energy welling within him. "I have made this a place of healing and salvation," he intoned, in that voice that wasn't quite his own, and wasn't quite Justice. He closed his eyes against the flash he knew had come, and when he was certain that he looked fully human, Anders turned on the new arrivals. "Why do you threaten it?"

There were two mages, he saw, along with a man in arms and a scantily-dressed mundane woman whose eyes wandered in a way he'd have found instantly appealing, before he'd gained his true purpose. A mabari growled at the knee of one of the mages, who seemed torn between admiration and fear. "You're the healer Lirene spoke of?"

A sigh tore through Anders' lungs, and his weariness hobbled him. "I am," he admitted, seeking refuge on the still-bloody table upon which he'd saved the child's life. "Though I get the feeling you don't need my services," he pointed out. "So why are you here?"

The man-no more than a boy himself, really, at least a decade younger than Anders-stepped further into the grimy clinic. "We also heard that you're a Grey Warden." When he stepped aside, Anders spied a dwarf at his heels; the shorter man looked far too pleased with himself.

Anders gritted his teeth. "I used to be," he admitted. "Did the Wardens send you to drag me back?" He sensed no taint on them, which made the prospect unlikely to start with, and even unlikelier to succeed.

The boy put up a hand, palm forward. It was his right hand, Anders noticed, and it rested well within reach of the boy's greatblade despite the peaceful intent the gesture affected . "Nothing like that," the boy assured him. "My name's Carver Hawke. This is my sister, Bethany," he said with a tilt of his head to the human mage in his company. "We were hoping you could get us into the Deep Roads."

The renegade mage had no response to that for a couple of heartbeats, and when he found his breath, he used it up in a laugh. "Normally, civvies beg Wardens to get them  _out_  of the Deeps," he informed them, once he'd caught his breath. "Or to kill them quickly, before they turn into ghouls," he growled, under his breath. That was one particular duty he certainly didn't miss. "You can call me Anders." If he'd been his old self, he'd have gone on with  _Everyone else does_ , and given the sister a cocky grin for good measure. Instead he tried not to scowl, and only partially succeeded.

The girl called Bethany gave a shudder. She whispered something to her brother; Anders caught the name 'Wesley', but nothing else before she turned back to him. "So you really  _were_  a Warden?"

Her face bespoke an innocence which told him she'd never seen the inside of a Circle, much less the horror of the Deep Roads, but there was also a subtle understanding that he couldn't quite put his finger on. "I have seen the white wastrels of the depths, and heard their cries as I sent them to their deaths," he half-boasted, as proud of the poetry as of the acts which his words described. "But I will die a happy man if I never have to set foot in the Deep Roads again."

"We're not asking you to come with us," the dwarf broke in. "Me and my brother just need a way in...a map, or even just a set of directions." He waddled with as much dignity as he could muster. "I'd offer to pay you, but I hear you don't go for coin."

A smirk tugged at Anders' lips. "I don't," he confirmed, before he took another look at the motley before him. Between them, they had enough steel and sorcery to help him with another problem, that he'd have to take care of that night. Perhaps the Maker was smiling upon him, after all. "Although," the mage allowed, "a favour for a favour..." He looked from the anonymous dwarf to the named siblings. "I have a...friend...who needs my help getting out of the Circle." He'd might as well show his hand early. "If you help us, I'll get you your maps, ser dwarf." He didn't have them-why would he?-but he damned well knew someone who would.

The elf's voice sounded from just in front of the closed door. "I've heard  _awful_  things about the Circle in this city," she said, as Carver and the dwarf were having a silent conversation.

Anders grabbed hold of the hope her comment offered. "My friend's named Karl," he explained. "He used to be in the Fereldan Circle, but got transferred here before the Blight. The treatment he describes..."

Carver cut in. "Will doing this give us more attention from the templars?"

"Perhaps," Anders admitted. "Karl's going to sneak out of the Gallows tonight, to meet up in the Chantry. If he's followed, we might have to defend ourselves from the tin-tops." That last word brought up a pang of nostalgia; for all the reasons he'd left Redcliffe to come to Kirkwall, Anders missed his conversations with the Warden-Commander, from whom he'd stolen the term of derision.

The word also brought a change in Carver's expression. He whispered something excitedly to his sister, but Anders was too tired to listen closely. "Excuse me," the warrior spoke up. "This may sound a little weird," he went on, "but...did you know a Grey Warden named Athadra?"

 _That_  certainly got Anders' attention, and he sat up straighter. "That depends on who's asking, and why." If anyone had cause to suspect that Anders still had ties to the order in Ferelden, his plans could come to naught.

Bethany gave him a hopeful look, and he noticed that her companions were giving her their attention, as well. "When we were children," the mage began, "we knew an elven apostate a year older than us, called Athadra Surana."

It hit Anders like a thunderclap. "You're the Hawkes," he breathed. " _The_  Hawkes!" He shook his head in disbelief. "I should've known from the moment you said!" Another laugh bubbled up from within him, which made three that month...a record for the year, possibly. "I've just had a lot on my mind, recently." The mage Warden's lips twitched, but he kept his mirth count from climbing to four.

Carver's brows knitted. "So you  _did_  know her!"

"Guilty as charged," Anders replied. "She was my commanding officer, in fact. The sodding Champion of Redcliffe and Commander of the Grey."

"And she spoke of us?" Bethany asked, a bit tentatively.

Anders nodded. "Not very much...but I got her to open up one night, when she and Oghren played a game of  _Wicked Grace_  over a bottle of Aqua Magus. " His face set at the memory, the mage careful to keep his fondness for his old friends close to his chest. "She worried about you three surviving the Blight." As soon as he said the word  _three_ , Anders realised his mistake, even before the pall came over the Hawkes' expressions.

"Guess she was right to," Carver gruffed. "Our sister...didn't make it to Kirkwall."

The renegade mage shook his head. "I really am sorry to hear that," he told the pair of them. "But you two were luckier than some to have made it out." He glanced at the boy. "I hear you were at Ostagar. She thought you might have escaped, since you would've been with Loghain's contingent of the army, but she didn't want to look for you and come back with...nothing."

Anders' news seemed to please and trouble Carver in equal measure. His lips parted, but then he shook his head. "I guess we can talk about this later," he pointed out, with a glance to his vertically-challenged friend.

The dwarf nodded; as soon as the Warden-Commander came up, he'd snapped to attention, soaking in every detail as though he were breaking a cipher. But now he looked ruthless again. "Right now we've got business to attend to. You say you want us to help you break a mage out of the Gallows?"

Anders didn't have to feign the grimness that took hold of his features. "He should be able to get out on his own, but he'll seek refuge at the Chantry. If he's not able to slip out unnoticed, he'll probably have a couple of templars escorting him; mages are allowed to worship in the evenings, under guard, at least until Knight-Commander Meredith decides to strip them of that right as well." The mage gripped the side of the table, just managing to keep a lid on his anger. "If that's the case, we'll need to...dispose of them."

The mundane woman breathed a husky chuckle. "Killing people in the Chantry after dark seems to be catching on around here," she commented.

The dwarf grunted a laugh. "If they haven't gotten more suspicious after cleaning up Hayder, I'd be well and truly surprised." He glanced at Anders with a little shrug. "We had to clean a bunch of bandits out of the place who had it in for the Rivaini," he explained. "A bit over a week ago."

Anders might have wondered whether he meant a surface week or a dwarven week, but a chill crept across his shoulders at the information. "Then they may be more watchful," he pointed out. "Are you willing to do what's necessary, to secure Karl's freedom?" His tone left little doubt as to what  _necessary_  might entail.

Bethany appeared apprehensive. "I think Merrill and I should stay out of it, just in case," she ventured.

"Oh, I don't know," the elf replied. "If we kill all of them, there'll be no witnesses to come back to us." The way she said it, with such casual innocence, nearly made Anders fall out of his chair. "Of course, it'll be more dangerous for you," the elf-Merrill, evidently-went on. "So it'll probably be a good idea for you to sit it out."

Carver apparently agreed. "There's no shame in holding back, Beth," he reassured her. "It's what Father and Cethlenn always taught us."

The mage still seemed uncertain. "But if they trace you, they'll find me, anyway."

"I'll be careful," he promised, "and leave the plate at home. If we can get those maps, we can be underground in a month, and then in Hightown a month after that."

Suddenly their bizarre quest made a lot more sense to Anders. "I'll be grateful if any of you show up," he told them. "And if you help me, I promise you I'll get you those maps. But there's likely a queue forming outside." The mage moved off the table and gathered up a dirty cloth to wipe it down. "I'll be on the steps of the Chantry after nightfall," he promised.

* * *

The world tinted a luminescent blue for a second, before the colours drained away to drab imitations of life. " _No!"_  His not-quite-Anders voice rang, utterly outside of his volition, and the man was helpless against the rage clawing through his flesh. " _You will never take another mage as you took him_!" He dropped his staff as though it were a simple stick, and struck out against the nearest templar, grabbing the man's head with both hands. A surge of power flowed down his arm, and fire filled the inside of the templar's helmet. The mage-hunter couldn't even scream before he fell.

Steel clashed against steel all around Anders, as more templars than he could count filled the side-chamber where they'd sprung their ambush. He had no pity for them, and no concern for the gang who stood with him against them. Vengeance dominated his thoughts; vengeance for Karl, certainly, and for all of the mages unjustly stripped of their gifts through the Rite of Tranquility-a process which took all emotion, all dreams, all ambition, and left only an obedient husk in their place. The templars' armour shredded like so much paper beneath the fury of his magic, fuelled by Vengeance. The spirit within him cared nothing for the Chantry's taboos, either, so when the templars' attacks drained him of mana, Anders simply fought on with the power of his own blood and that of his enemies.

In the private space of his mind, Anders could only watch in horror as he collapsed ribcages and wrenched off limbs, and he prayed that the Hawkes and their companions would understand once he'd come back to himself. He could not do that, however, until every last templar in the Chantry had been found and slain.

When it was over, and Vengeance had ceded control again, Anders shook with the shame and exhaustion of losing control. Upwards of thirty bodies lay strewn about, at least half of them felled by his magic and bare hands. He only looked up when a familiar voice called out to him.

"Anders..." Karl swallowed, and when the renegade mage focused on him, he saw tears in his friend's eyes. "I don't know what you did, Anders, but I can  _feel_  again! It's like...you brought a piece of the Fade into this world."

Anders picked up his staff once more, using it to lever himself to his feet. "I...have missed you, Karl," he managed, unwilling to admit just how true the man's observation was. Seeing his friend's face alive with emotion, despite the sunburst brand that the Circle burnt into the forehead of its Tranquil mages, was enough to bring tears of joy to his own eyes. "So much," he added thickly.

They came together in a rush, heedless of the bystanders looking on. Anders tasted templar blood from his own lips as they grazed over Karl's, but the other mage didn't seem to care; he accepted Anders' tongue as greedily as always, despite the years and all of the events which stood between this night and their last. The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but it burned into Anders' memory, even as Karl pulled himself away.

"It's fading," the man husked, his grip strong on Anders' shoulders. "You cannot know what it's like, Anders," he went on. "All the colours, all the  _music_ , just...gone." Karl's breath came in short gasps. "You have to kill me, before it slips away."

"Hang on," came Carver's voice, from closer than Anders realised. "We're here to save him, not kill him. Surely there's something else we can do."

The renegade mage stole a glance at the boy; he seemed so earnest, and yet still shocked by the carnage that Vengeance had wrought. "Can you cure a beheading?" He turned back to his friend. "I was too late, Karl," he breathed. "I'm sorry." He ignored the mumbled conversation taking place behind him, listening only to the sound of Karl's breath as he slipped a dagger between the man's ribs. Anders couldn't tell if the light fading from his friend's eyes was the Rite taking effect in that last moment, or simply the shroud of death claiming Karl's soul, but he knelt beside the man until his heart ceased beating.

Bethany took a step closer, behind him. "We should away," she urged, and he knew she was right; in the end, she'd decided to take the risk of helping her brother, but now she likely regretted it.

Wiping the blood and tears from his cheeks, Anders rose, and marched all the way back to Darktown without a word. It was with some surprise that he realised the Hawkes and their friends had all followed him, but he turned to face them, grateful for the numbness that always settled in after Vengeance took hold. "You kept your end of the bargain," he said. "In the end, Karl was freed of the Circle. You'll have your maps within the week, I swear it."

That news seemed to relieve the dwarf, who still hadn't given his name, but Carver and Bethany looked more troubled. The warrior hadn't put up his blade after the fight, presumably since they were traipsing through Lowtown and Darktown in the middle of the night, but he didn't seem apt to relax now that they were safely lodged in Anders' clinic, either. "You mind explaining that whole eye-glowy, arm-ripping-offy thing?"

Anders sucked in a breath; at least they hadn't noticed the blood magic, which he took great care to avoid whenever Vengeance rested idle within him. "It's...complicated," he let on.

The elf, Merrill, giggled. "He means that he made a deal with a spirit," she said, somewhat offhandedly.

"Not exactly," Anders countered, giving the elven mage a second look. "But...it's pretty close."

Bethany's voice was small, but her words carried great weight. "You seemed pretty possessed to me."

Anders put up a hand to hold off any more interruptions. "As I said," he gruffed, "it's complicated. Back in Amaranthine, the Commander, Oghren, Nathaniel and I were pulled into the Fade by a powerful darkspawn mage." The memory was enough to make him shudder. "Once there, we allied with a spirit of justice in the fight against the demon holding us," he explained. "But when we got out, Justice inadvertently came with us, and got bound to the corpse of a Warden."

"What do you mean," Carver ventured, "inadvertently?"

Anders swallowed. "Justice never intended to leave the Fade, and once he got trapped in Kristoff's body, he couldn't figure out a way to get back...so he fought the darkspawn with us." The renegade mage shrugged. "He and I became...friends, I suppose, and he came to understand the unjust plight that mages face all across Thedas. But the body he inhabited was still dead, and it began to fall apart." He closed his eyes. "There was an enormous battle at Vigil's Keep, with hundreds of darkspawn against a handful of Grey Wardens. We lost some of our own...including Justice's body."

The dwarf snarked. "I'm not exactly seeing a point here, Blondie."

"I'm getting there," Anders hissed, throwing the short man a glare. "Once Kristoff's body was no more, Justice did not return to the Fade, as we'd both hoped. Instead, he...lingered on, and I feared that he might simply disappear."

Merrill spoke up again. "Can spirits really die, do you think?"

Anders shrugged. "I know I didn't want to find out," he replied. "And I figured...a willing host would be better than taking another corpse, or worse, another mage. It...took some persuading on my part, but eventually Justice agreed to merge with me." His face twisted. "But my anger-years of suffering under the templars, of seeing them act with impunity and pick which mages deserved to live and die, of watching them cart off our children to be raised in the Chantry as templars-in-waiting..." He broke off, glancing from the elven mage to the human one. "The sheer injustice of it all warped him into a spirit of vengeance, and now whenever I see a templar, it's all I can do to keep him from coming out."

A stab of guilt lanced the mage's chest when everyone took a half-step back. Bethany was the first to speak. "But...can't you reason with him?"

"No," Anders replied. "It's...not like he's living in my head. We don't hold conversations anymore. He's a part of me," the renegade mage explained. "And when the injustice is too much to bear, I lose control. I can only watch as Vengeance takes whatever measures he deems necessary." He turned away, leaning his staff on the table. "I'll understand if you never want to see me again, after I get you your maps. But know that I am grateful for your aid, and neither you nor any who yearn for freedom have anything to fear from me."

"We'll be back in a week," Carver told him. "I'm sorry for your friend," he added from further away.

The mundane woman breathed a chuckle. "Looked like a bit more than a friend, from where I stood," she purred.

Anders gave them no answer, and he was pleased to hear their conversation fade away, grateful for the chance to snatch a few hours' rest before he'd try and atone for all of the blood on his hands. He did not weep for Karl, but he would never forget that last embrace, as long as he lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as ever, to clafount at fanfiction.net for beta-reading this beast! 
> 
> You might have also noticed that this chapter has formatting, such as italics, where most of the ones before don't. I'm experimenting with different ways of pasting the chapters in so that I don't have to manually re-format each one, and I think I've finally discovered a way. I might re-post earlier chapters to get them properly formatted here, eventually.


	16. An Executive Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is some question over the Amell family's fall from grace during Leandra's absence from Kirkwall, and the Hawkes take it upon themselves to investigate. Bethany gets gets a few unexpected moments alone with Isabela to boot.

 

Bethany had hoped for a nice night in, perhaps a quiet supper with her mother and uncle. Carver had gone out; he often did, to Merrill's place, or so he said. Part of her suspected that he frequented the Blooming Rose, since some of the  _employees_  there had recognised him when they'd had to go there on business for Knight-Captain Cullen-she and Carver exposed a nest of apostates who were abducting templar recruits and coaxing them into possession, for which they earned the knight-captain's gratitude and thus a few more weeks of relative security. But in the course of the job, Bethany witnessed a whore greeting Carver like an old friend and scolding him for being scarce. Since then, Bethany hadn't asked about the incident, and he hadn't said.

Truth be told, the mage wasn't certain which prospect disquieted her more-that her brother might be spending some of their earnings at the Rose, or that he was trying to court a blood mage. Merrill was nice enough, but she seemed to see nothing wrong with what she'd done, and sometimes her naivety hid a ruthlessness that could turn Bethany cold. With a sigh, the mage turned her mind from such thoughts, and tended the pot of stew in the fireplace. Her plans for the evening were shot, however, when Gamlen stumbled through the door.

"Thought you'd be with that other magicker," the man gruffed, and Bethany could smell the whiskey coming off of him. Not for the first time, she was grateful that they kept almost all of their coin with Varric. "Down in Darktown," Gamlen added, for emphasis.

"Leave her alone, Gamlen," Leandra warned as she sat mending a shirt. "Bethany's making our supper."

The man fell into a chair, his presence making the cramped room all the smaller. "I'll bet she'll stick around and eat her share, too."

Bethany bit her lip, and let her mother continue to speak for her. "We might have more food to share if you hadn't gambled away the estate," the elder woman breathed, sounding as close to anger as her daughter had ever heard. "You forced my children into servitude for a year, and then made them beggars for another. They should be nobility!"

"They should be in Ferelden," Gamlen retorted, the liquor making him sound vicious. "Along with you and that apostate you ran off with. What did you expect Mother and Father to do after what you did to them?"

Her mother's reply never came; when Bethany chanced a look, she saw silent tears at the woman's cheeks. "She was still their daughter," the mage pointed out. "They should have left her something."

"If I could only see Father's will," Leandra half-whimpered.

Gamlen growled. "It's in the vault, in the estate," he said. "Like I've told you before, woman...and as you pointed out, the grand house is long out of my hands. You'd better get used to Lowtown, Leandra," he pronounced. "That's where we're going to stay after your children go die in the Deep Roads."

Leandra's mouth worked, but little more than squeaks came out, and Bethany found her feet quickly. "You didn't keep the will?" Her eyes flashed in the low candlelight as she tried to redirect the conversation; now that they had the maps and most of the coin, it was a matter of a handful of weeks until the expedition could get moving. Perhaps a month, at the outside, according to Varric. "Did you even take a look at it?"

The man blinked in her direction. "Was old news," he slurred. "It was read and it went into the vault. Nobody's needed to see it since then."

"Until now," Bethany pointed out, nerves and anger threatening to get the better of her. "I'll tell you now, Uncle," she warned him, "if I find out you've stolen from Mother, you will live to regret it." Before he could answer, Bethany stalked to the door, snatching up her crimson staff along the way. Her trusty mabari slipped out right behind her, after a warning growl to the older man.

Lowtown's dusty air filled her nostrils almost immediately, and she didn't linger by the door long enough to hear the argument which certainly erupted in her wake. Despite the chill of the late summer evening, the alleyways were still well-stocked with thieves and whores, so the mage kept to the main thoroughfare until the path bisected another main road.

Here she hesitated; head right, and eventually she would come to an entrance to Darktown, and the haven of Anders' clinic. He'd agreed to teach her more about healing and elemental magic in exchange for her assistance with the refugees. As long as she didn't mention anything about spirits or the Chantry, the hours passed companionably enough, and she had already learnt quite a bit in the last few days. After the initial shock of his quasi-possession wore off, Anders turned out to be charming, in his own way, and the one time she saw him smile had been the highlight of her day.

To Bethany's left was the route to the Alienage, and eventually to Merrill's house. If Carver had been honest, he'd be there with her, doing Maker-knew-what. It might be rude of Bethany to intrude upon their supper, or...other things. Funny, the thought of Carver in the Blooming Rose was unpleasant but hardly embarrassing. The idea of him fooling around with a friend of theirs, however, was enough to make Bethany's cheeks flush.

"You know," came a purring voice from over her shoulder, "if you stand here too long someone'll tack a street sign to your forehead."

Bethany's heart leapt up into her throat; not because she didn't recognise the voice's owner, but rather because she did. "Evening, 'Bela," she called, trying to keep the surprise from her tone.

Shadows seemed to dissolve around the pirate, and though she pretended to look down the right fork of the path, Bethany could feel Isabela's eyes darting over her surreptitiously. "Every minute you stand out here after dark costs Varric three coppers, you know. " When Barcus panted in her direction, the pirate spared him a single pat on the head.

The mage's brow rose. "I didn't know that, actually. " She tried not to return the woman's subtle glances, and mostly succeeded. "Does that mean I should go home?"

"Only if you want to," Isabela replied, her eyes glinting with her smirk. "You could come back to the Hanged Man, instead," she pointed out. "Or you can stay out here. I owe Varric twenty silver from a game of diamondback; if he's got to deal with a Coterie collector, he's not hounding my arse for it."

Bethany stifled a giggle, rolling her eyes at the pirate's cheek. "I certainly don't want to go home," she admitted. "I was thinking of finding my brother, but he could be...busy."

The pirate tilted her head. "What's he poking that sword of his into at this time of night?"

"Merrill," Bethany answered, before she fully grasped the double-entendre. "I mean," she corrected, "he said he was spending the evening with her. I don't know what they're up to."

Isabela's eyes widened, then narrowed again. "Do you want to find out?" By the pirate's smirk and the tone of her voice, it was obvious  _she_  did.

The mage bit her lip. "I want to find Grandfather's will," she let on. "It's locked up on an estate in Hightown, maybe. Carver might be willing to help."

"Breaking into estates in Hightown," Isabela mused, and wiped a fake tear from her cheek. "You little eyases are growing up so quickly. I'm proud of you."

"Us little...what, now?" Bethany blinked, uncertain whether or not to be offended.

Isabela rolled her eyes. "Eyases," she repeated. " You know...hawk chicks." S he snickered at the joke, and Bethay thought she might smell a bit of ale on the other woman's breath.

The mage gave a little chuckle, just for appearances. "We won't have to break in," she informed the pirate. "Mother gave me the key to the cellar just after our first contract with the Red Iron ended, but we never got around to checking it out."

The pirate  _tsked_. "Oh, where's the fun in using a key?" She leaned forward in that way she had, that made Bethany want to back away and lean in at the same time. " _I_ could get you in the front door, Beth."

"I...appreciate the offer," Bethany assured her. "But Carver would probably like to see our grandparents' house, too, and you know how hard it is sneaking around Hightown with him."

"True enough," Isabela conceded with a chuckle. "Varric doesn't have the coin to keep the Coterie off his back, and they don't have the sense to keep Carver's sword out of their guts." She turned and sauntered a few paces down the left path before stopping and looking over her shoulder. "Come on, then."

Bethany blinked a couple of times, finding herself unable to resist following the pirate. Together, they made their way through the narrow alleyways of the Alienage with little incident, and soon Isabela's gauntleted fist was pounding on Merrill's rickety door. A sudden surge of mana put Bethany on edge, but when the elf came to the door, nothing looked amiss. "Oh," the elf greeted them with a delighted smile. "Do you want to come in?"

The human mage was ready to take Merrill's hospitality as proof that her brother was carousing elsewhere, but as soon as Bethany stepped inside the hovel, she spied Carver standing over a washbasin. When he turned to her, his cheeks were slightly flushed and he was straightening his shirt. "Do you need anything?"

Bethany's eyes narrowed slightly; the man sounded slightly out of breath. "I was wondering if you wanted to find Grandfather's will tonight," she ventured. "I've just escaped a shouting match between Mother and Gamlen over it."

Carver's eyes flicked toward Merrill. "Tonight's not a-"

"I think that's a marvelous idea," the mage piped up, just a bit too cheerily, even for her. "We can take care of the slavers holed up there, too."

"What?!" Both Isabela and Bethany wondered aloud, in much the same tone. The mage looked pointedly at her brother and continued. "What does Merrill mean?"

The warrior's hand met his neck, and he glanced to the floor. "I, uh...talked to Gamlen about it," he admitted. "Or, rather, he was rambling drunk at the Hanged Man, going on about his gambling debts. I think he was trying to beg me for some money...and he told me that he bet the estate on a card game with some slavers out of Nevarra."

Annoyance shone on Bethany's face. "Why didn't you think to tell me?" And why had he told Merrill?

Carver's face hardened. "I only learnt about it before we got word about that Anso character, and then we all got a bit distracted by a lyrium-etched elf with a pack of Tevinters on his tail. " He sighed. "And I didn't know how to tell you...it's upsetting enough that it happened, but I don't know what to do about it."

"If you want my advice," Isabela broke in, unprompted, "there's only one thing to do for slavers. The brooding elf's right, at least about that." Her voice was much darker than usual, and Bethany saw that her face lacked its characteristic smirk.

Merrill clapped her hands. "Another adventure! I haven't had this much fun since we took the Qunari mage through Darktown!"

Carver rolled his eyes. "That was a week ago, Merrill," he pointed out. "And the blasted thing set himself on  _fire_."

"I remember," Merrill assured him, though her brows knitted. "I've only just got the smell out of my clothes."

"Sounds like we've got a plan," Isabela spoke up, sounding closer to normal again. "Should we go pick up Fenris?" That was the name of the  _brooding elf_  that, for a modest fee, they'd saved from his own pursuing slavers just a few days before. He now squatted in his former master's mansion in Hightown, not too far from the Amell estate.

Bethany shook her head. "The key is to the cellars, which let out in Darktown," she informed them.

"That's probably why the Nevarrans wanted it," Carver reasoned, moving to pick up his sword.

Bethany noticed a patch of red soaking into the side of his shirt. "You're bleeding," she stated, flatly. Her brother jerked and glanced at Merrill, looking a bit guilty, and the human mage got a sinking feeling in her stomach. "What have you been up to?"

Merrill to tell her. "I've just been-"

"Nothing," Carver spoke over the elf. "I just cut myself earlier," he explained, "and Merrill was trying to heal it when you came in."

"I'm not very good at healing," Merrill allowed, with a bit of a giggle.

Suspicion gave way to confusion, and then to frustration. "You should've come to me," Bethany scolded her brother, "or to Anders. Let me see." Reluctantly, Carver moved closer, but he jumped when the mage moved to tug his shirt up.

"Do you...have to do that?" He glanced pointedly over her shoulder, presumably at Isabela.

The pirate chuckled. "I've seen worse, lover-boy," she assured him. "Now hurry up while we've still got moonlight to burn."

"Alright," Carver grudged, and he unbuttoned one of the thick linen shirts that he'd taken to wearing more and more often, even on dangerous missions. Bethany didn't quite hear Isabela's gasp over her own; she knew he'd kept their mother busy mending his clothes, but she wasn't prepared for the network of scars that spread across his chest and abdomen. Some of the deeper ones she remembered healing herself, but there were dozens more. Carver growled under his breath. "Are you going to get on with it, or not?"

Bethany stirred from her surprise and set to work, hissing at the tingling sting she felt in her own flank as her fingers worked to either side of her brother's cut. In no time at all it was gone, with hardly a hint that it had ever been, unlike so many of the other marks on Carver's torso. "That should do it," the mage affirmed, wiping her bloodied fingers on her brother's shirt.

"Watch it," he warned, taking a step back.

"It was already bloody anyway," Bethany retorted. "And you're welcome." She heard a snicker from behind her, and turned to see Isabela whispering something into Merrill's ear. "We should go," Bethany announced, trying to shake off the annoyance which Carver's evasiveness had generated. The pirate and the elf probably saw two perfectly-normal siblings...or, at least, two siblings who killed people for a living and had a healthy relationship with one another. But Bethany hated quarreling with her brother. There was definitely something going on between the warrior and the elven mage-the elven  _blood mage_ , Bethany thought to herself-but whatever it was could surely wait.

With a call of general assent, Bethany followed Merrill out into the narrow streets of the Alienage. Nobody bothered them as they left the shanty-town, and Bethany took the lead once they'd climbed the stairs out of the elven quarter of Lowtown. When they came to the same crossroads where Isabela had appeared, Bethany kept going straight, toward the great sewers in which the poorest of the poor made their homes.

"Are we going to pick up old glow-eyes along the way?" Isabela wondered, when they neared the rogue mage's clinic.

Carver barked. "Not unless you want to hear about how templars are no better than the shitstains we're going to be killing," he sighed. "For the four-hundredth time since we met him."

Bethany frowned, but didn't contradict her brother...at least not vocally. She didn't even think that Carver disagreed with Anders in principle, but he simply couldn't know what the older man had been through. The stories Anders had told her, mostly unprompted, about the Circle in Ferelden had made her more grateful than she could admit that her parents had done so much to keep her from it. According to the renegade mage, Kirkwall's Circle was even worse. "This is it, I think," she called out when they reached a rickety set of stairs up into a dark chamber.

Isabela's booted foot was already on the fourth rung. "Let me try!" Without waiting for permission, the pirate slithered up the staircase.

Somehow Bethany found herself next in line.  _Don't look up_ , she admonished herself, but just before Isabela reached the top, the mage couldn't resist sneaking a peek...just to see if the pirate wore any smallclothes under that short skirt-or long tunic.

Isabela didn't, it turned out.

"Oy," Carver breathed from the bottom of the staircase. "Get a bloody move on!"

Bethany swallowed the lump in her throat, and she was grateful to the deep shadows for hiding the burn in her cheeks. Of course, when she found the willpower to ignite a flame in her palm to see by, the mage saw that the back door to the cellars hung ajar with not a pirate in sight. "Wait for me," she called, and hurried to follow Isabela inside.

Where the pirate waited to ambush her. Bethany found herself pushed against a wall just inside the door; a squeal of surprise died in her throat, but the mage's fire flickered out just as she saw Isabela's honey-coloured eyes draw in close. The door slammed shut, and Bethany felt Isabela's warm breath tickle over her lips. "Did you enjoy the show, sweetling?"

The mage pulled in a breath, smelling stale ale and just a hint of cinnamon. "I didn't mean to look," she whispered. "I'm sorry!"

"Don't be, Beth," Isabela half-scolded. The mage felt the pirate's fingers slip across her collarbones to her throat, and Bethany's heart thudded loudly behind her ribs. "I've seen the way you look at me, sweetling," the pirate cooed. One of her fingers trailed up Bethany's throat and jaw, landing on the mage's cheek. "Aww, I can  _feel_  you blushing! How adorable!"

"Balls," Isabela cursed, and Bethany shivered when the other woman's heat melted away. "Better let them in."

Catching her breath, Bethany rekindled her hand and fidgeted the door open. "Sorry," she managed. "It must've shut behind us."

Barcus brushed past Carver and leaned heavily on her legs, growling lowly at the dark passageway beyond them. The ten-minutes-younger Hawke shook his head. "It was a job and a half to get the mutt up those stairs." If he noticed the ruddy tint still lingering in his sister's cheeks, the warrior made no mention of the fact. "We'll have to risk leaving through Hightown."

"Since you've started talking to Aveline again," Bethany pointed out, "that shouldn't be too much of a problem. We can claim we were just doing some street-cleaning."

The warrior chuckled. "There probably won't have to be much 'claiming' about it," he observed. "Do you want to take point, or should I?"

The mage considered for half a heartbeat. "I will," she decided, when she realised that Isabela would be in the thick of it with her...though why that should sway her was baffling to Bethany. Nevertheless, she was committed, and so she took the lead down the corridor with Barcus to her right and the pirate to her left. Merrill brought up the rear, the top of her gnarled staff emitting a more subdued light than Bethany's hand-held flame.

The first room they came to had no guards, but it had nothing of value, either. Isabela scouted ahead, half-concealed in flickering shadow, silently disarming a few traps that the slavers had lain against just this sort of incursion. Not long after, some poor sod caught sight of them and tried to raise an alarm; one of the pirate's daggers cut off his cry, and Bethany turned him into a human icicle for good measure. The party's good fortune could not last, however; a squad of armed men waited for them in the cellar's atrium, and reinforcements thought to overwhelm the intruders with sheer numbers.

The Hawkes hadn't spent the better part of two years in the Red Iron, and the last few months being little more than freelancing thugs, for nothing. Because of the guards' numerical advantage, Bethany could fling her spells into their ranks with relative impunity, and Carver swung his greatblade in wide arcs, to very good effect. Coupled with Isabela's precise take-downs and Merrill's debilitating hexes, the unfortunate slavers stood no chance of prevailing.

As they tore through the cellar, Bethany and Carver looted every room and body they came across. Most of the crates held nothing of interest to them, but one disused storeroom held an old portrait of their mother, along with her wedding ring-not the one Malcolm had carved out of hartwood, but the silver-and-gold band she was to wear as the wife of the Comte de Launcet, whom she'd abandoned almost literally at the altar for the Fereldan apostate.

These were not the greatest treasures to be found in the old Amell estate, however. After they'd slain the Tevinter magister who headed the Nevarran slave-traders, the rest of his men had fled, giving them the run of the house. In particular, Carver found the key to the vault concealed in the magister's pocket. Inside they found nearly ten sovereigns and a few of their grandparents' letters, but the one document which had motivated the entire trip proved more elusive.

"Hang on," Isabela called over her shoulder; the pirate was leaning over the edge of a large chest, and it took more willpower than Bethany could imagine to keep her eyes from wandering. "Is this it?" When she stood straight and turned, Bethany saw a folded parchment stuck down the front of her bodice.

Bethany's lips parted, but Carver found his tongue first. "How are we to know?"

"How indeed," the pirate agreed, resting a hand on her cocked hip. "I guess one of you's just going to have to fetch it." Though she spoke inclusively, Bethany couldn't help but notice that Isabela's eyes rested most heavily upon the mage herself.

"I don't understand," Merrill spoke up, coming to stand between the Hawke siblings. "Why can't you just hand it to them?"

Isabela's head tilted to one side and she spared the elven mage an indulgent grin. "My hands are tired, kitten. From picking the lock and shanking all of those bad men. Remember?"

"Oh," Merrill intoned, noncommittally. "Well, you heard her," she called, after a moment's consideration. "Is either of you going to fetch it, or shall I?"

Bethany threw her brother a glance, but his face burned as hotly as hers must have done on the stairs. Taking a steadying breath, the mage stepped forward, casting her eyes anywhere but the parchment and what it concealed. She tried to grip the very top of the paper, but at that moment Isabela inhaled sharply, causing Bethany's fingertips to brush over the tops of her breasts. The mage yanked the papers a bit too quickly, turning away in haste, lest she be tempted to survey the damage removing the parchment might have caused to the pirate's wardrobe.  _What's wrong with me_ , Bethany wondered to herself as she unfolded the parchment.

"Now was that so difficult, Beth?" Isabela purred from behind her.

Rather than rise to the bait, Bethany read the top line of the document. "The Final Testament of Aristide M. and Celia K. Amell," she read out, her voice shaking...though whether it was from success, or what she'd had to do to confirm it, the mage wasn't certain. "To our daughter and heir, Leandra S. Amell, we leave our estate in Hightown and countryside properties..." She read off the list, her stomach falling farther with each parcel of land or business share. Their grandparents were  _rich_. "Our sole surviving son, Gamlen Amell, is hereby named executor and custodian until Leandra can claim her inheritance."

A long moment of silence followed that last sentence. "That old shit-eating bastard," Carver growled. "He probably didn't wait until their ashes got cold before he started selling off everything he could get a buyer for!"

"He bamboozled your mother but good," Isabela concurred, though her tone was equal parts impressed and envious. "Got himself named executor, so it was his responsibility to tell her." She clicked her tongue. "His letters must've just got lost en route."

A white-hot anger filled Bethany's chest, burning away the confusion instilled by Carver's dodgy behaviour with Merrill and Isabela's taunts. "We should talk to Varric," she hissed, through clenched teeth. "To see if we have enough coin to get the expedition into the ground. If I have to spend another month with that man I will  _kill_  him!"

Carver blinked in surprise, and then gave her a proud grin. "I've been saying that ever since we left the mercenaries," he boasted. "Let's go."

The pirate sighed. "We have the run of the house, at least for the rest of the night," she pointed out. "Don't you want to explore it? See what other treasures we might find?"

"No," Bethany answered at once. "I'll not loot the house I aim to move in to."

Isabela rolled her eyes. "Can we at least see if they've left us any rum?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as ever, goes out to clafount on fanfiction.net for beta-reading!


	17. What's In A Nameday?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun keeps turning, and the Hawkes are both a year older. They haven't planned anything special to mark the occasion, but their new associates have a few ideas...

 

That one shard of mirror rested on a bookshelf, behind a thick tome. Merrill hadn't looked at it in weeks, but she'd thought of it nearly every night, and she wondered how she'd get the coin together to venture back to Ferelden to find the rest of it...and if she'd be able to make the trip alone. Carver might be willing to come with her, but he had his own adventure to go on, underground. Merrill might even be tempted to follow him, for his company and the opportunity to find some treasure of her own, but the thought of spending weeks without sunshine unsettled her to the core.

She hadn't told him about the mirror, at least not yet. They'd been too busy practicing their subtly-different kinds of blood magic together, and chatting about all of the wonderful adventures they'd been on in the last few weeks. Merrill liked to think that the warrior was a friend...perhaps the first one she'd ever really made. It still embarrassed the elven mage when she thought of Bethany spying the results of their practice, at least on Carver's end. She'd cautioned him to be careful with her dagger and she'd tried to be diligent in healing his cuts, but Carver's skin loved to pucker and preen, proud to show off any injury as a badge of merit.

Merrill wondered whether the warrior would come to her this evening. The day before, they'd chased down a clutch of apostates who'd escaped from the Circle at Starkhaven, together with Bethany and Anders and Varric. The apostates were led by a mad blood mage called Decimus, but once he and his fiercest acolytes were dead, the more reasonable mages just wanted to get out of the cave with their lives. Varric had spun a yarn for the pursuing templars, claiming that Carver was a  _special agent_  from the White Spyre, and he'd killed all of the apostates. It had reminded her of the story Varric told to a slave-trader who had a knife to a half-elven mage's throat, a couple of days before they'd all met Isabela. She'd kept her mouth shut then, and Hawke and Bethany had taken the boy to Marethari at Merrill's own suggestion, so that he could be her new First. She still didn't know if the clan had accepted him; like all human-elven offspring, the boy's features were almost entirely human.

But Varric's ability to think up a good story the previous day, for the templars in the foothills, was ruined when Merrill openly remarked upon its cleverness...right in front of his audience . In the end, they'd had to kill most of the templars sent to pursue the apostates, with the exception of one named Ser Thrask and a couple of his fellows. Afterward, Merrill got the impression that the others were annoyed with her, so she was avoiding them for a few days. She had plenty of books to read and chores to do in the meantime.

A knock sounded at the door, breaking through the elven mage's reverie. Her heart skipped in her chest, though she didn't quite understand why; perhaps part of her was nervous at the blood she would shed with Carver? In any case, Merrill found her feet and threw open the door without spying through the gap in the wood first. "Oh," she said, when she saw who'd come calling. "Isabela...I wasn't expecting you."

"You were expecting someone else?" The pirate's drawl dripped with amusement. "Maybe someone with bigger arms and a pitiful bit of fuzz on his upper lip?"

Merrill nodded. "Yes, I had hoped to see Carver tonight," she admitted freely, though she stopped just short of telling Isabela why. The aversion to discussing magic with mundanes was ingrained too deeply in her for that. "Would you like to come in, though?" She wouldn't mind spending the evening hearing a story about the ocean.

"You're a dear, kitten," Isabela cooed. "But it's doubtful Carver will show up, even if he wants to," she warned. "I'm actually here to fetch you up to the Hanged Man."

"What's going on?" Curiosity overwhelmed the worry that the Hawkes really  _were_  angry with her.

Isabela's brows knitted, though her smirk only deepened. "Sword-boy didn't tell you?" When the elf shook her head, the pirate breathed a chuckle. "Today's his and Bethany's nameday," she informed Merrill. "And they don't want to make a big deal of it, so close to the start of their little subterranean camping trip."

Merrill blinked. "I don't get it," she admitted. "Why are we going to the Hanged Man just because it's the Hawkes' nameday, if they don't want us to know about it?" The human custom of celebrating the day of one's birth still mystified her, even though the Alienage elves had adopted the same practice. Didn't they know that the Earth went 'round the Sun, and that the Sun itself moved, so that even after the seasons cycled, everything was in a different place than it had been the year before?

Isabela broke into the mage's thoughts again. "Because we're throwing them a  _surprise party_ , kitten."

"Oh!" Merrill's lips turned up into a smile for a second, but it faltered. "But...what if they don't like surprises? You don't want to sneak up on a mage, you know."

The pirate cocked a brow. "Don't I?" She shook her head. "Don't answer that, kitten. We've got Anders and Fenris in on it, so they'll keep the kids from killing the rest of us."

"Alright," Merrill agreed, swayed by the pirate's impenetrable logic. "Just let me get my stave and I'll be right out!" She retrieved the weapon from its perch beside her bed, pausing on her way to the door to throw a glance at the book which held the fragment of her mirror.  _He can't have died for nothing_ , she told herself with a firm nod, and then left her hovel with a few protective spells to keep potential intruders at bay.

Isabela chatted with her about nothing in particular as they made their way through the Alienage and down Lowtown's only-slightly-wider streets to their destination. An enormous figure of a man hung by his ankles on the building's edifice, light enough to swing slightly in the breeze; it served as an advertisement even to the unlettered...or a warning. Merrill normally avoided the place, unless Varric or Isabela had her over to watch them play cards.

The inside was surprisingly quiet, unlike the last time Merrill had been. It was nearly empty, save the bored-looking bartender and a single serving lady. The elf made a thoughtful noise. "Where is everyone?"

"Varric's room," Isabela replied. "There are guards posted outside to keep any strangers out."

"But I didn't see any guards," Merrill pointed out, as the two women picked their way across the floor and up the stairs to Varric's abode.

The pirate chuckled. "They were  _good_  guards," she explained. "Unlike the acolytes of Lady Man-Hands."

"Will Aveline be here?" The elf asked, just as they pushed their way through the door.

She was, it turned out, along with everyone else that Carver and Bethany had given cause to join them over the past few months, along with a trio of elves from the Alienage with some instruments. "Daisy!" Varric called from a corner, where he was attempting to construct a pyramid out of bottles of wine. "Glad you could make it!"

"Thank you," Merrill replied, and she marveled at all of the people. Fenris surprised her with his presence; she hadn't seen much of the elf since she'd helped the Hawkes clear his mansion of shades and demons planted there by Danarius, the man who'd burned lyrium into Fenris' flesh, and thus given him the will and the skill to slip the bonds of servitude. She would've admired the elf, if he hadn't turned his experience into a burning hatred of all magic.

The mundane elf threw her a glare. "At what do you stare, blood mage?"

"I was just admiring your  _vallas'lin_ ," the Dalish mage assured him, not for the first time.

"Avert eyes," he snapped, sinking lower into a chair. "Lest I have cause to pluck them out." For being an escaped slave from the wild Northern isles of Tevinter, Merrill thought that Fenris had a remarkable grasp of the King's Tongue, even if it was still inflected with patterns from Arcanum.

Isabela clucked her tongue, leaning over the table to the sulking elf. "Is that any way to have a party?" She shook her head, and Merrill wondered how she could be so brave; the elven mage had little doubt that his threats were sincere. "You should lighten up!"

"As I recall," Fenris growled, "I was asked here to keep boy from turning sword upon you all." His gaze didn't falter from Isabela's face. "Gratitude to him and his sister stays my own hand from same course."

"We should all relax," Varric insisted. "They'll be here any minute. Blondie, mind getting the lights?"

Anders gave a resigned sigh, snapping his fingers. Suddenly, every torch and candle in Varric's room extinguished. No light came from beneath the door, either; given the lack of windows, even Merrill's eyes had trouble for a moment, until they adjusted to the faint shimmer of Fenris' tattoos.

"Shit," the dwarf breathed. "Didn't think Elf would ruin it. "

"I can leave," Fenris offered, but someone shushed him.

Merrill had never experienced the Hanged Man being so quiet before; she could hear the subtle thrum of all of their hearts beating chaotically, but she told herself that it wasn't her blood magic which drew her attention to the sound. She was about to ask what they were waiting for when she remembered the day before, so instead the elven mage clamped a hand over her mouth, to make certain she didn't ruin whatever Varric had planned.

They weren't much longer in waiting, however. A scuffle sounded from the main barroom below, and then a series of heavy footfalls. "Varric!" The call would be muffled to the humans' ears, but Merrill shared a look with Fenris, just for an instant, and they both heard it perfectly. A moment later, Carver burst through the door with his sword drawn, Bethany hot on his heels. "Maker," the warrior cried out. "Varric! Answer me!"

Anders must have gotten his cue, for just then, all of the recently-extinguished lights burst to life once more. Carver screamed in surprise and swung blindly with his sword, but in that instant Fenris appeared before him, parrying the blow with disdainful ease. Merrill sensed an explosion of mana washing over the room, but it was a magic-binding spell, flowing from Anders' perch to where Bethany stood wielding her red staff.

"Andraste's tears," the woman squealed, reeling back into the doorframe just as Carver recovered from his shock.

Isabela hopped onto the large, round table. "Surprise!" The elves started in on their instruments a moment later, and soon the room was filled with warmth and music.

Carver's mouth worked soundlessly for a couple of heartbeats as he took in the scene. "You bastard," he muttered, fixing Varric with a glare. "Why'd you have that boy come and tell us Bartrand was holding you hostage?"

The dwarf's bubbling laugh was infectious. "Is that what I said?" He stroked his chin and shrugged. "I guess I meant that my brother's miles away and won't shove his moustachios anywhere near this place." He gestured to the table, where Fenris had reclaimed his seat next to Aveline. Isabela was still perched on the tabletop, eyeing the Hawkes like they were lunch. "Sit," Varric cajoled them. "There's liquor and music, and there'll be food in not too long."

The warrior only shook his head and put up his sword, but Bethany cast a glance about. "We said we didn't want anything special," she pointed out. "In fact, we told you specifically to keep something like this from happening."

"It was the Rivaini's idea," Varric said, a bit hastily. "Sorry, Rivaini," he muttered, when she threw a glare over her shoulder. "What's done is done, though, and the gang's all here."

Fenris took the opportunity to scoff again. "Can I take leave now?"

"Yes," Carver said, just as Varric and Isabela said "No!" in concert. A spasm crossed the mundane elf's features, but he didn't move from his chair.

"Look," Varric chimed in. "We've all been working hard lately."

"Some more than others," Aveline muttered, throwing most of them a warning glance. "And I haven't caught you doing anything but running your mouth, Varric."

"You're dismissing a hallmark of both the utterly ineffectual and the incredibly dangerous," the dwarf retorted. "But we've pulled together nearly enough to get the ball rolling. The sodding Merchants' Guild won't let us actually put feelers out to hirelings until we have every copper penny lined up, but I figure we just need one more decent job."

That seemed to get the Hawkes' attention. Carver took a step closer to the table."Are you sure?"

Varric nodded. "Positive."

"Wait," Bethany said, taking another look around. "Surely you could've made up the difference in what you spent on the spirits and the band."

"Plus what you forked over to clear the streets," Isabela added, throwing Merrill a cheeky grin.

The dwarf waved them both away. "Maybe," he conceded, "but I've already made my investment. What I do with my money is my business...and part of that business is getting you money from other people's pockets." He turned and took the top two bottles from the pyramid; one was a startling blue colour, while the other was a more traditional black. "But you should worry about that tomorrow...or more likely, the next day," Varric went on. "For tonight, we celebrate. Blondie'll even keep your glasses cool free of charge."

"Ooh," Isabela purred. "Can he make ice balls?"

Merrill got the distinct impression she was missing something when even Aveline snickered, but Anders heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Magic isn't-"

"Yeah, yeah," Carver broke in. "Magic isn't for our amusement. Heard it all before." Now that he'd gotten over the shock, the warrior seemed a bit more amenable to the celebration. "I'd bet you weren't this much of a downer when you were killing darkspawn for a living."

The renegade mage had no answer to that, while Varric busied himself pouring the black-bottled liquid into eight glasses. He measured a small dram of the iridescent stuff into each once that was done. "Now go easy on this," he warned Carver, hefting the still-mostly-full blue bottle. "It's called Aqua Magus . Drink too much, and you take a long trip to the Fade."

Fenris pulled a face and pushed his glass away. "I desire no more lyrium in veins," he growled. "Different drink, I demand. Now."

"That's more like it, Elf!" Varric enthused, and then he threw a glance at the three standing mages. "You all gonna siddown or am I going to have to fetch Bianca?" The dwarf turned to fetch Fenris a less-offensive spirit. "You too, Rivaini," he gruffed, with his back still to her.

Anders gave a shrug, but he approached the table just as Merrill and Bethany did. Bethany eased into the chair beside her brother, but when Merrill moved to sit to her other side, Isabela's booted leg blocked her path. "Sorry, kitten," the pirate purred. "This seat's taken."

The elven mage tilted her head. "You don't  _sound_  sorry," Merrill pointed out, but she took the next seat over without complaint. Varric claimed the seat to her right, leaving Anders to sit between the dwarf and Aveline. Isabela jostled Merrill's shoulder and gave her a toe-curling grin. "That's because I'm not," she whispered just loudly enough for everyone to hear. "Small sips," the pirate cautioned in a true whisper, glancing down at the red-filled glass standing before Merrill.

The elf nodded, but then noticed that somehow Anders had acquired Fenris' discarded glass. "You're not going to drink both of them, are you?"

The renegade mage actually managed a smirk that had a nearly Isabela-like quality to it. "There is the odd benefit to being a Grey Warden," he said. "It's not all trudging through the Deep Roads to fight monsters out of your darkest nightmares."

"Just mostly?" Varric asked, raising his cup to his lips and taking a healthy sip. "By the way," he said over the chuckles his comment had bred, "I wasn't kidding about the chills. Get with it already, Blondie." The Grey Warden rolled his eyes, but snapped his fingers with a flourish again, and suddenly all of the glasses were rimmed with frost.

Merrill tried a cautious sip; she'd had ale before, and wine, but never in quantity unless she was by herself in the woods. This drink was deceptively smooth, but she could feel the lyrium tingling on her tongue, spreading the liquid's chill down her throat and into her very being. "Oh, I like this!"

"Be careful!" Nearly everyone admonished her at once, except Fenris, who merely growled. Anders had already swallowed half of one glass, but he seemed unaffected in the slightest. "How thick are the walls in this room?" He wondered, with a pointed look to Varric.

The dwarf mused for a moment. "Thick enough to withstand a hurricane," he boasted. "But flammable enough that I wouldn't recommend a firestorm. Why?"

"Because," the renegade mage let on, "having mages drink Aqua Magus might wind up with some collateral damage."

The mundane elf with the lyrium-etched skin grumbled. "If any pose danger, I will see it ended," he mumbled into his cup, but Merrill wasn't certain anyone but she-and possibly the Alienage band-could hear him.

Her suspicions were more-or-less confirmed when conversation continued at its normal banter. Varric started in on a story about Antivan hillmen who'd captured the Princess of Nevarra and were trying to use her to resurrect an Old God of Tevinter, when an unassuming dwarf with brilliant blue eyes and a perfectly normal relationship with his crossbow managed to save the day. "Yep," Varric finished. "That Tethric Varras and his trusty Beatrice saw all those hillmen to their just reward. All in a day's work."

"Oh," Merrill hiccoughed, "that was lovely!" When she looked down, the elven mage was surprised to see that half of  _her_  drink was gone, now, too. "Can we have another?"

Isabela made a thoughtful noise. "I think the dwarf needs a rest, after all that hillman-killing."

"Tethric couldn't agree more, Rivaini," Varric agreed. All of his drink was gone, and half of another, non-lyrium-imbued glass. "Why don't you tell us a story instead?"

Merrill grinned at the pirate. "Could you? Please?"

Isabela's lips parted; her drink was gone, too, as well as at least one more. "I..." Her eyes cast about the room, until she turned away from Merrill, toward Bethany. "I have a better idea," the pirate let on. As gracefully as a halla in stride, Isabela slid off of her chair and straddled the human mage beside her, ignoring Bethany's squeak of surprise. "I think the Hawkes both deserve a nameday kiss," Isabela purred, her arms slipping loosely around the mage's neck.

Merrill gasped, covering her mouth in surprise, but Isabela leaned even further over and pecked Carver on the cheek. Merrill felt her heart flutter again, and her brows knitted; maybe she should get Anders to take a look at her? But just as the elven mage glanced at the former Warden, a muffled gasp sounded to her left, followed closely by whistles and grunts from all around the table. Merrill's face felt afire when her eyes returned to the pirate- Isabela's lips were locked on Bethany's, both of their jaws working, though the mage's fingers opened and closed on nothing but air behind the pirate's back. "Oh,  _Mythal_ ," Merrill breathed, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight.

After another minute or so, Isabela came up for air, settling with her back against the edge of the table and her hands at Bethany's shoulders. "Now how was that, sweetling?"

The other half of the table settled into conversation while Bethany composed her reply, but Carver, Isabela, and Merrill all focused their attention on the captive mage. "I...does that mean...you've been with women? In bed?"

"In bed," Isabela purred, and Merrill could hear the grin in her voice. "On tables, against walls...on the deck of my ship in a storm, once." The pirate leaned closer again. "Shocking, isn't it?" Isabela stole another kiss and slipped off Bethany's lap as easily as she'd straddled it. "You see, sweetling," the pirate went on, " men are only good for one thing. Women are good for  _six_."

Merrill couldn't see Bethany's face anymore, and didn't know her voice well enough to guess how she might look, but the woman's answer was breathless and shaking. "Six? ...which six?"

Isabela leaned over and breathed so lowly that Merrill had to strain to hear. "I might show you sometime, sweetling, if you ask  _nicely_." Then the pirate straightened up and banged her empty glass on the table. "I need a refill and a card game. Now!" Her tone made Merrill snap to attention; the elven mage might have hopped to any task the pirate demanded, whenever she used that voice .

Varric took her empty cup with a chuckle, evidently unperturbed but willing to indulge the pirate anyway. "Have anything in mind?"

"Rum," Isabela demanded. "Keep the glass-bring the bottle."

The dwarf heaved a sigh and moved off to fetch an exquisitely-shaped bottle, finer than most of the others, and filled with a deep amber liquid. "Only the best for you, Rivaini," he gruffed, sliding the rum over to her. "What kind of game?"

Isabela didn't answer at first; instead she uncorked the bottle and gave it a good sniff. It must've been good, because her eyes rolled up in her head and she gave a luxurious moan before she tipped the bottle end-up and glugged three times. The pirate hissed and spluttered a bit, but recovered quickly. "Strip diamondback," she suggested, her voice the same silken breeze it normally was.

Varric rolled his eyes. "I swear, that's the only game you cheat at to  _lose_."

The pirate scoffed. "I prefer to consider it  _winning_. Like a race!"

Carver laughed from a couple of chairs over. "It doesn't hurt that you start out halfway there already."

But the cards were already being dealt out, and everyone was apparently drunk enough to take the suggestion seriously, even Merrill. The elven mage didn't really know the rules, but neither did Bethany or Fenris. As if to prove a point, Isabela made sure that everyone else lost at least one article of clothing before she started  _winning_. Varric, perhaps wisely, called the game after she'd taken off her bodice, gloves, armoured elbowpads, and boots, but still had her tunic and all of her jewellery. The pirate pouted, but soon recovered by draining the last of her rum and whispering more scandalous things in Bethany's ear.

Merrill lost track of time, along with how much she had to drink. No more of the lyrium-liquor, she was fairly certain, but she knew she had a swallow of whisky before the bartender intruded with plates of food for them all. Somehow, between Fenris' brooding, Isabela's flirting, Anders' sullen reminiscing, Varric's stories, Aveline's guarded enjoyment, Carver's ever-increasing inebriation, and Bethany's blushing, Merrill realised that they were all having a great deal of fun. No one breathed a word of the expedition all night. At some point, the elven mage lay her head on the table for just a moment, only to wake up bleary-eyed in Varric's bed sometime the next day. Her splitting headache wasn't enough to compete with the jumbled, joyful memories she'd also earned the night before, though.


	18. Six Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A certain someone comes knocking on Isabela's door looking for answers, but she might leave with even more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the name of this chapter likely implies, this one might help the story earn its 'M' rating.

 

The soft knock at the door took Isabela by surprise. It wasn't locked-not really, anyway, not well enough to keep out anyone who might have cause to enter uninvited. The pirate wasn't expecting any guests in any case, invited or not, so she considered just pretending to have missed that gentle rapping. Unless...Varric was just down the hall, Merrill never came into the Hanged Man unless the pirate dragged her, and Carver would've pounded and cursed her lazy arse by now. Aveline would've already broken the door down and hauled her to the gaol if the guard-captain had had cause to seek the pirate out, while Fenris and Anders hardly ever ventured out of their respective domains except at one of the Hawkes' prompting.

Which left just one person Isabela could think of who might knock on her door so furtively. A grin broke over the pirate's lips like a wave, and she eased up from her desk, sauntering to the door. It creaked inward after a few deft movements of her fingers. "Hello, sweetling," Isabela purred. "Care for a drink?"

The pirate shouldn't do this, she knew. The poor girl had resisted all of her teasing until the party, but afterwards, Bethany had avoided her like the mage had gotten a rash along with a kiss. That was more than a dozen days ago, and another job, which Isabela hadn't been dragged along for. Something to do with some nobleman from Tantervale or Markham or somesuch. Isabela didn't mind terribly being left in the lurch, but she had wondered, idly, whether she'd crossed some kind of line. "You coming in, or are you just going to eyeball me all night? Not that I mind, obviously."

The girl licked her lips. "I just thought...we should talk." She didn't take a step. "About what happened," she added, vaguely.

"With the bandits?" Or assassins, Isabela reflected. It was probably assassins. "Varric told me all about it." She took a step away from the door and gestured. "Hurry up before you let all the heat out." Not that the night was cold, but Isabela always had an excuse handy.

Reluctantly, Bethany crossed the threshold, jumping when Isabela shut the door firmly behind her and latched the no-uninvited-guests locks. "No," the mage ventured. "What happened at the party." She leaned her staff carefully against the wall, as if she'd already anticipated the pirate's plan...which was funny, since Isabela hadn't come up with it until two seconds after the knock sounded.

The older woman cocked a brow. "When Merrill and Aveline started dancing a jig on the table?" The girl's inadvertent giggle was a song on the pirate's ears, and Isabela took a deliberate step forward, unsurprised when Bethany scooted a half-step back. "Or when Carver and Anders got into a drinking competition over how many times Fenris cursed in Arcanum?" They'd finished the Aqua Magus between them, to Varric's dismay and everyone else's delight, especially when the renegade mage had started zapping flies out of the sky with bolts of lightning.

Bethany backed up again at Isabela's second advance, and made a soft sound of surprise when her legs brushed up against the pirate's unmade bed. "N-no," the girl stammered, her cheeks on fire already. "Before both of those, when you..." Isabela's mouth made a moue when the mage hesitated. "When you got on my lap..."

"Like this, sweetling?" The pirate brought a single finger up to the crux of Bethany's collarbones; a gentle pressure was all it took to topple the girl backward, and Isabela didn't give her enough time to recover before the pirate poured herself across the mage's thighs like a jar of molasses. "Didn't we talk about it already, when it happened?" She was swimming in dangerous waters; the girl between her legs could launch her across the room and freeze her solid before burning her to death, and hardly break a sweat. If it came to that, Isabela wasn't  _quite_  sure that she could reach for her daggers in time...but that was part of the fun.

But instead of doing any of that, Bethany merely made one of those lovely little squeaks of hers. "I...you said...you'd had a lot of women," the mage managed at last, gripping handfuls of Isabela's rumpled sheets.

Isabela smoothed the mage's bangs, running her thumb along Bethany's cheek. The way the girl's breath caught, stretching the mid-cut top she wore beneath her chainmail, was simply  _gorgeous_. "I also told you that women were six times as valuable as men," she whispered. "Which is why I've had six times as many."

"I guess," Bethany husked, "that means you've had a lot of lovers?"

The pirate's tongue worked at the stud in her lower lip as she leaned down. "Not as many as some people think," she breathed, sparing a sour thought for the guard-captain and certain other ungrateful cretins who were all too happy to fuck her and then call her a whore afterward. "But yes. Men, women...elves." Her head tilted as she reminisced. "A dwarf in drag once, but I don't recommend that." She was close enough now to see the layers in the girl's brown eyes, only a shade lighter than her own and filled with little whorls. "Why? How many lovers have you had?"

Isabela knew the answer even before Bethany shut her eyes, blushing even more furiously. The pirate luxuriated in the heat the girl's face gave off, but she didn't say anything; she wanted to hear it. "I..." Bethany breathed, looking up into Isabela's eyes with a half-desperate, half-fearful expression. "I've never..."

"I know, sweetling," Isabela assured her, dipping down to brush a nearly-chaste kiss across the mage's forehead. "That hornhead-killing brother of yours has been holding out on you. He should've gotten you a night at the Rose...on  _me_." She leaned back, shifting her hips so that Bethany's chainmail skirt pressed at the golden studs between her thighs, and the pirate let out a low groan. "Of course, now that I'm on you, we don't have to use a trip to the brothel as an excuse."

Bethany's answer was a long time coming. "...Why are you doing this to me, 'Bela?  _How_  are you doing it? " Her brows knitted, concern and not a little bit of shame bleeding across her features.

Isabela sighed. Shame was so predictable, especially in virgins. "You couldn't keep your eyes off of me from the moment after you ran into Lucky," the pirate boasted. "And while I'm flattered,  _you're_  the witch, so you can't go blaming me for walking through an open doorway." To prove her point, and since mages tended to get prickly about being called  _witches_ , the pirate closed the gap between their mouths in a sudden rush.

She didn't have to ply the girl's lips for more than a heartbeat before Bethany took the bait, and Isabela's tongue made itself at home in the mage's mouth. She tasted salt and sunshine in the younger woman's kiss, which she'd put down to the Aqua Magus when she'd tasted the same thing at the party. Isabela made a note to herself to tell Varric about the aptness of his nickname for the girl...and then nearly forgot it, when Bethany began returning the kiss in earnest. The pirate breathed a chuckle into her mouth when Bethany's hands finally started fumbling about Isabela's flanks.

Bethany had to breathe through her nose, for Isabela was relentless, pillaging every nook of the mage's mouth, seeking to own her taste completely. The pirate groaned when her captive writhed beneath her, the hard steel pressing into Isabela's cloth and flesh until it warmed with her own heat. With a reluctant grunt, the pirate relinquished the kiss and levered herself backward, surveying the extent of her conquest. "Now, tell me you didn't like that," she purred, "and I'll call you a liar."

The girl swallowed with difficulty, her hands settling on Isabela's hips as if by instinct. "I've never done anything like this, before," she reiterated, a bit of the fierce colour beginning to drain from her face. "Growing up it was too dangerous-"

"Too much talking," Isabela gruffed, diving into another tongue-dueling kiss. The pirate was pleased when her agile member had to truly vie with Bethany's to maintain its dominance, and she let the girl know with a throaty growl. She didn't mind that Bethany's hands were glued to her hips; it certainly wasn't Isabela's first deflowering, and she intended to take her time...the whole night, if need be. It might take that long for the girl to get comfortable, though that was hardly within the pirate's sphere of consideration. Eventually, when Isabela's tongue had counted every single one of Bethany's teeth and memorised all of the contours of her mouth, the rogue made a study of the mage's lower jaw and neck.

Isabela's fingers were quick and assured as she shifted, slithering ever-downward, like they'd fondled the buckles and clasps of the girl's armour half a hundred times already. Bethany gasped in surprise when the chain about her middle suddenly went slack, and she wasn't difficult for the pirate to shift until the metal garment pooled noisily by the bedside. The pirate's shifted position forced the mage's hands to slide up her flanks, but when they hesitated at the crook of Isabela's arms, the rogue looked up from Bethany's neck. "Do you want me to stop, sweetling?" Isabela arched, so that if the girl cared to, there was nothing to stop her from looking down the pirate's front all the way to her coin purse.

Bethany's eyes fell slowly, weighted down by the deliberate breaths Isabela heaved. "I'm scared," she admitted in a small voice, and Isabela saw that it was true when those golden-brown eyes looked to her own for reassurance.

"I know that, too, sweetling," Isabela sighed. The thought of having miles of mountain on top of her sent shivers down the pirate's spine, and not the good kind of shivers, at that. "You sunk the money yesterday?" Varric had told her yesterday, at least. Now there was nothing but time until his overweening brother had the whole sodding thing organise d.

The mage bit her lip. "The day before," she whispered. "And I just thought..."

Isabela's brow knitted. The girl must really be worried if unbridled lust couldn't take it off her mind. A small voice in the back of the pirate's mind told her to stop this, to keep from taking advantage...but she'd never listened before. Why start now? Instead, Isabela slid her hands down Bethany's flanks, hooking her fingers into the waistband of her leather trousers. "At the party, you asked me which six things women were good for," the rogue let on, smirking as deviously as she could muster. "Do you still want to know?"

Bethany's face was a clouded horizon, still red from the heat of their kisses, just like the dawn of a day promising a squall. But when Isabela planted a sensuous kiss at the crux of her collarbones, she saw the clouds part, and the pirate had her answer.

* * *

Six things in half as many hours, with a few extra pointers and lessons thrown in for variety, and Isabela was almost certain that she'd taken Bethany's mind off of the trip. They lay tangled in the rumpled sheets of the bed and one another's arms, sweat and cinnamon and the stink of sunshine all over them. Bethany clung tightly to the pirate for another half an hour as they recovered. "It must be near one in the morning," the mage marveled, once she'd caught her breath.

"Closer to two," Isabela corrected. A decade spent on ships had given her a damned fine internal clock. "Past your bedtime?"

"I didn't think I could  _do_  that with my magic..." the girl mused, shaking her head against Isabela's shoulder.

The pirate shifted, bringing her knee more firmly between Bethany's thighs. "You mean when you frosted the end of your tongue, or when you did that thing where you made your fingers glow all purplish?"

"Either," Bethany mumbled. "Both."

Isabela rasped a chuckle, grateful for the Hanged Man's solid walls. "Well, now you know why Leandra threw away her future with a stuffy old half-Orlesian ponce to go rooting around Ferelden with you r father." Bethany gasped, but Isabela smothered her scandalised retort with another indulgent kiss. When it faded, the pirate propped herself up on a pillow, twirling her fingers through Bethany's short, raven locks. "You should let your hair grow out," Isabela mused. "It would be so much better to pull on, then." The mage shivered, looking away, but Isabela only realised that was the wrong thing to say when Bethany tried to hide a sob. "What's wrong, sweetling?"

Bethany's arms slipped more tightly around Isabela's torso, almost uncomfortably so, but the pirate swallowed her discomfort. She didn't want the younger woman to get the wrong idea, but something in the mage's grip told her that Bethany was looking for a friend at the moment, rather than a lover. "My sister kept her hair short," the girl mumbled.

Isabela traced a finger along her cheek, breaking a trail of tears. "The one who...died?" She pointedly thought of anyone but Casavir...or Amarella...or Katarina...or Marlo. Shaking her head to clear it of those old ghosts, the pirate crooked her finger beneath Bethany's chin, forcing the girl to look up at her. "She's gone, sweetling. Letting your hair grow out isn't going to make her any deader."

Though she'd spoken in soft tones, the words were bitter to hear, and the spasm of pain which crossed Bethany's face was almost enough to make Isabela rue saying them. "But...I don't want to forget," the girl whimpered.

"You won't," Isabela breathed. How'd she gotten herself into this conversation?  _Balls_. T he pirate's finger trailed down the front of Bethany's neck, down into the valley of her breasts, until it rested on the girl's sternum. "Keep her alive in here, and no one can ever take her from you."

"But..." More tears grew at the corners of Bethany's eyes. "I already can't...remember what she looked like. N-not really."

"That doesn't matter," Isabela insisted. "Just like what you look like doesn't matter." She cast about for a delicate way to change the subject, but came up empty-handed. "She lived, and she loved you enough to trade her life for yours." Varric had told her the story-the real story, or so he said, not the incredible tale he had spun for random bar patrons for much of the last few months. "As long as you carry that, she'll still be with you."

The girl sniffed, burying her face in the crook of Isabela's neck. The pirate patted her on the back for another few minutes as she wept. When the girl's shoulders stopped shaking, she shifted, looking up through her bangs at the older woman. "How...who..."

Isabela's brow drew down. "Piracy isn't exactly working at a merchant bank, sweetling. You lose people." How did the euphoria of a girl's first time turn so serious so quickly? The rogue shrugged her shoulders. "The world's a dangerous place, Beth. People close to you will die. You can't live for them, even if you care about them. You've got to live for  _you_." That was her coping mechanism, anyway. That, and as much rum as she could get her thieving hands on.

"I...don't know," Bethany sighed. "Do you really think I'd look better with longer hair?"

The pirate's lips quirked. "I think  _everyone_  looks better with longer hair, sweetling. So much easier to grab while you're fighting or fucking." A laugh bubbled up when Bethany's cheeks reddened again. "Oh, come on, you can't be embarrassed after I had you bent over the end of the bed with my hand-"

"I can," Bethany insisted, covering her face with her hands. "And I am."

"Spoilsport," the pirate sighed, running her fingers through those too-short locks again. "Now where has my bandana got off to?" Her own wild jet-coloured hair hung about in waves, unmatted by too long away from the winds and salt spray of the sea. Isabela made a show of looking for the garment, but Bethany apparently wasn't in any mood to let the woman go, so she sighed and settled back on her pillow. "It's past your bedtime," the pirate announced, answering her earlier question. "And this bed's not big enough for both of us to sleep in."

The girl breathed an incredulous laugh, one leg spreading out behind her while the other moved across Isabela's knees; neither set of toes touched the edge. "It's enorm-"

Isabela cut Bethany off, using her thigh to lever the mage up on top of her until Bethany sat in a perfect split. "I  _knew_  that would work," the pirate gushed, feasting her eyes on the girl's pale flesh. "You need to get out in the sun more, sweetling. Get some sun-lines, at least."

Self-consciously, Bethany levered herself up, freeing her arms to cross in front of her chest. Evidently she couldn't resist taking advantage of her new perspective, however, and Isabela shivered pleasantly beneath her gaze. "Why don't you have any sun-lines, yourself?"

_Because I'm from Rivain_ , Isabela's inner voice reasoned,  _and it's too dark in here to make them out_. It was an answer she'd consider giving to Merrill, but the girl straddling her hips didn't deserve her forthrightness. "Use your imagination," the pirate purred instead. "Why do you assume I spend all my time outside dressed as stiflingly as when I tag along with you and your brother?" The rhetoric was rewarded with another deep blush. "Now you should really go," the pirate breathed, "before I decide to keep you until dawn."

Bethany hesitated, clearly considering the benefits and drawbacks of the threat, but then a yawn snuck up on her. "I suppose you're right," she admitted, but she didn't move from her perch as she cast her gaze about. "Where  _is_  your bandana? ...and my tunic?"

"And my daggers?" Things had gotten a bit...hectic, around the second item on the Six Things list, and Isabela couldn't remember.

"There's one," Bethany intoned, and Isabela followed her gaze up to the ceiling, where  _Backstabber_  stood proudly.

"Fuck," the pirate gruffed. "How in the Void am I going to get it down from there?" She should really be more careful with where she tossed her beauties...though she supposed they were lucky that  _Heartbreaker_  wasn't lurking somewhere in the sheets with them. Unless it was, of course...then they would've just been lucky.

Bethany tried to move, but the bedsheets were tangled around her legs in a particular way, and Isabela's recent mischief had only gotten her more thoroughly stuck. When her efforts proved futile, the mage collapsed against Isabela's torso, giving the pirate's neck a few furtive kisses for its own. "It looks like it's sunrise," she sighed, not without contentment and just a little excitement.

Isabela chuckled. "You deviously planned it that way from the beginning, didn't you?" Before the mage could offer a protest, the pirate put a finger to the girl's lips. "Now that we're agreed, let's see how well you remember your lessons, sweetling..."

Over the next couple of hours, they found out that Bethany's recall was quite good, indeed. They'd failed to locate  _Heartbreaker_  as they tumbled around the bed, but Isabela supposed that was a good outcome, all things considered. When they were finished, the pirate was starting to feel sore, and she was certain that the girl would curse her name the next time she woke...unless Bethany got Anders to ease her aches away. Could mages do that? She'd have to check.

"That was..." Bethany rasped.

"It certainly was, sweetling," Isabela agreed. " But now I think it's time for you to go."

Bethany showed no signs of movement. "Varric says that if everything goes well, we'll be ready to set off in five days."

"Four, now," Isabela reminded her. "Are you still scared?"

The girl's face twitched and she took a deep, settling breath. "Yes," she admitted. "But...not quite as much. I guess I should thank you."

Isabela grinned, despite herself. "I aim to please." A heartbeat passed. "Unless I'm aiming to kill," she amended. "So I'll rephrase: I aim to please, except when I don't."

Bethany's giggle was a wonder, and she leaned into Isabela's hand when it stroked her cheek. "Can we do...this...again? Before I go?"

The pirate cocked a brow. "If you want, sweetling," she replied. At least the girl hadn't asked her to come along. "And after you get back," she prompted. "But don't expect me to wait by the door like a mabari while you're gone."

The girl bit her lip. "I know," she said. "And I don't want..." Whatever she'd meant to say faded as she looked away, and with some effort, Bethany managed to untangle herself from the sheets and Isabela's limbs. The lamp flickered and guttered out while she was gathering her clothes, but Bethany simply ignited her palm and continued her search.

"That looks like a handy trick," Isabela observed, enjoying the clearer view that the light afforded. "I'll bet you're handy to have around in winter, too."

The mage blushed but didn't reply immediately, too busy tossing her little blue-white fireball from one hand to the other as she worked herself into her trousers. The pirate could tell that she must've gone a bit hungry saving up for the trip, since the garment hung slightly looser than it was meant to; she hoped the girl could properly fill it out once she returned with all of the ancient dwarven loot they were after.

"There're candles in the drawer, sweetling," Isabela informed her, and the pirate savoured the sight of Bethany donning her tunic and chainmail. Her lips parted for a final farewell when the mage spoke up again.

"Do you think that Carver and Merrill are...up to something?" Bethany's face was unreadable in the low candlelight.

Isabela cocked her head. "You mean, do I think they're screwing around?" She shrugged. "I dunno. Kitten's never said...but I know she has eyes for the boy, even if she doesn't." At least not yet. The pirate thought it might be better that way, at least until after the expedition. "If you mean anything more nefarious..."

Bethany bit her lip. "I...like Merrill," she began, defensively. "But she did make a deal with a demon to learn blood magic, and she doesn't see anything wrong with that." Neither did Isabela-not really, at any rate-but the pirate didn't mention it. "I just don't want him to get hurt."

"He's a big boy," Isabela assured her, grinning wickedly. "And he's not going to take her with you." That last she pronounced with finality. "Not if he wants to keep his balls."

Bethany choked, trying to gasp and laugh simultaneously. "I...that's... _Isabela_!" She shook her head, though, fastening the last buckles of her chainmail. "Just...look out for her, while we're gone, will you?" The girl's brows knitted. "I think he might tear down the Gallows if they took her away."

Isabela raised herself up on her elbows, arching her back just slightly, to give the girl something to remember as she went to sleep that morning. "I'll keep my eyes open," the pirate vowed. "Don't you worry."

The mage paused by the door, fumbling at the locks. When they clicked open, she turned back to the pirate. "...Thank you, 'Bela," Bethany allowed. "For everything."

The pirate inclined her head and said no more, until the girl had gone away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to clafount at ff.net for beta-reading, and thanks to anyone who's following this story!


	19. Into Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day is finally upon the Hawkes; their fortunes will be won or lost beneath the ground, as they set off on their long-awaited expedition to the Deep Roads.

 

It was strange, feeling someone else's healing magic touch her after so long. For over two years, any time Bethany felt the tingle of another's mana, it presaged a devastating fight and, all too often, quite a bit of pain for her and those she cared about. Thus she flinched away from the first soothing tendrils of Anders' diagnostics, driven by that near-instinct, but the renegade mage was as patient with her as he'd been with the seemingly-endless stream of refugees who passed through the clinic.

"You didn't have to wait until you were about to leave," Anders said offhandedly, when he'd taken away her bruises and bite marks and the deeper soreness between her thighs. "Who was the lucky man, anyway?"

The younger mage bit her lip, willing her cheeks not to rouge. "What makes you think it was a man?" Of course he'd be able to tell that she'd been up to no good; it was why she'd waited until after her second night with Isabela to come to him, and only then because the prospect of walking all the way to the Deep Roads was nearly too much for her to bear.

Anders' brows shot up, a ghost of a smile touching his lips, giving him a shadow of the handsomeness that he might've held...before. "I shouldn't have assumed," he admitted. "It's not my business anyway. But you were careful?" When Bethany's brows knitted, the renegade mage sighed. "Are you in danger of bringing another little bird into the world?"

_Oh_ , Bethany thought to herself, unable to banish the blush. "Er..." She began, but just as Anders rolled his eyes, she blurted, "Isabela. It was Isabela."

Anders' face ran the gamut from shocked to impressed, and perhaps just a hint of envy whittled its way onto his features, before they settled down. "I shouldn't be surprised, given how she pawed you at the party," the man admitted. "Tell her to be gentler tonight," he admonished. "I doubt I'll get a chance to see you before you go tomorrow."

Ice flooded the younger mage's intestines.  _Tomorrow_. She and Carver had spent more than four months willing every day to come more quickly than the last, filled with dread over the threat of the templars or the simple vicissitudes of poverty. There were plenty of Fereldans in Darktown who'd had prospects ostensibly as good as the Hawkes', if not better; Bethany couldn't imagine why they'd been luckier than most. "You're still not coming with us?" It was almost an idle wonder-the work he did here in his clinic was much more important than scavenging beneath layers of rock, after all.

The older mage snorted. "I wasn't kidding when I said I'd rather die than see the Deep Roads again," he told her. "The Commander sent us down there in Fereldan enough to last me a few dozen lifetimes."

Part of Bethany was relieved that he didn't try talking her out of it again, as he'd done the week before. It was terrifying, truly, but their experience with the desperate lot of mages in Kirkwall had taught her that some things were worse than dying. Closing her eyes against those thoughts, Bethany tried to remember her childhood friend, and found she couldn't conjure her face any more than she could recall Cethlenn's. "What was she like, as a woman?"

"The Warden-Commander?" Anders took a contemplative breath. "Honestly, it's...hard to think that she was ever a child. I'm almost tempted to ask you the same question in reverse."

Bethany's lips curled. "I asked you first," she pointed out.

The man conceded the point by drawing up a chair, even as Bethany scooted to the edge of the table. "By the time I met Warden-Commander Athadra," he began, and Bethany silently remarked upon how he'd never once called the woman by her unmodified name. He only ever called her 'Warden-Commander Athadra' or just 'the Commander'. Anders drew a breath and continued. "She was already a hero." His lips quirked. "Though she prefers to be called 'Champion' by non-Wardens."

Bethany nodded. "You said she was named Champion of Redcliffe? Do you know why?"

"I know what she's told me, and what the minstrels in the village sing of...though I suspect that the truth lies somewhere in between the two." Anders shrugged. "The short version is that the arlessa hid her son from the Circle and hired an apostate tutor to train him...but Teyrn Loghain and Teyrn Howe had arranged for the apostate to be an agent of theirs, to poison the arl." The renegade mage glanced down. "The boy...he inadvertently summoned a powerful desire demon, in his grief, who built a nexus of power in the Fade and used the child as an instrument."

"That's..." Bethany's lips parted, but she had no words for the horror that must have occurred.

When Anders glanced up at her, his eyes flashed blue for just an instant. "It wouldn't have happened if his mother hadn't feared the Circle so," he said, his voice not entirely his own. "The demon took advantage of an intrigue perpetrated by mundanes, using a pair of frightened apostates as pawns."

The younger mage tried to swallow her nerves; this was as close as Anders had gotten to revealing Vengeance in her presence since that night in the Chantry. Beside the table, Barcus rumbled a growl, but made no further gesture...for the moment. "That is likely true," she assured the other mage. "But you said that Athadra took care of it?"

Anders grimaced and blinked, but when his eyes opened, they were normal once more. "If you can call it that," he spat. "The apostate tutor was a colleague of hers...a weak-willed un-Harrowed blood mage named Jowan. Using the arlessa's life, he sent the Commander into the Fade, where she confronted and killed the demon to release its hold on the boy...but not before the demon had killed half of the village, using their corpses as soldiers to try and slaughter the other half."

Silence reigned for more than a minute as Bethany absorbed the  _short version_  of the tale; she wouldn't care to hear any more details. "She must be very strong," the younger mage ventured, eventually.

"You don't know the half of it," Anders retorted, his grimace easing into something resembling a smirk. "But as to your first question, it's also difficult to think of the Commander as a  _woman_ , as well. She's a living legend. I think Varric wants to meet her, someday."

Bethany giggled. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

The renegade mage got a faraway look in his eye. "The Commander doesn't let most people get close to her. She has Oghren, who followed her during the Blight, and Nathaniel. She saved me from the noose, but I only really spoke with her when I healed her up after battles, and then mostly about magic and issues of mages."

"Then why did you leave?" The question was out before Bethany had even realised it was on her mind, but once she'd spoken it, she let it hang in the air for a long moment.

Anders held his peace for a few breaths, and then barked a dark laugh. "You don't want to know," he spat. "Trust me." The elder mage lapsed into silence once more, but just when Bethany thought to make her way home-or, more likely, to the Hanged Man-he glanced sharply at her. "Now it's your turn."

Bethany's brow quirked. "My turn to sweep?" She couldn't help the little grin that blossomed at the evasion.

That brought a smirk back to the man's lips. "Thanks for that," he sighed. "But I've told you about Warden-Commander Athadra, at least as much as...as I can. Now you tell me about the nobby-kneed elven child she once was."

Bethany closed her eyes for a moment, scanning her memories. "That's truer than you know. She was very strong," the woman recalled. "Physically, I mean. Much stronger than you'd think."

"Some things don't change," Anders commented. "Give me something I don't already know."

The younger mage dipped deeper. "I remember that she was very pretty, tall for her age, and kind to animals. Squirrels wouldn't run away when she climbed trees."

Anders whistled. "Well, she must've stopped growing, but...don't ever challenge her to an arm-wrestling match." He shook his head. "Still, it's funny to think of the Commander communing with nature. To hear her tell it, she chopped down a possessed tree just to steal a branch from it."

The image unsettled Bethany, but she tried not to let her disquiet show. "I suppose not everything stays the same," she observed.

The elder mage gave a curt nod. "If you ever have a chance to meet her again," he advised, "keep in mind that the Blight made her what she's become. The Commander had to do things that no mage-no human-should ever need to face. Try to understand her in that light."

"I will," Bethany vowed, now uncertain whether she truly would like to cross the elf's path again. "Thank you, Anders, for sharing with me."

She received a shrug, and the man's thanks in turn. He still had that faraway look, as though he were Merrill, listening too intently to one of Varric's stories. Bethany wasn't sure whether or not she should go, but suddenly the expression broke into a frown. "Void take it," Anders cursed, his hand balling into a fist. He looked at her with a mixture of frustration and pity. "Tell your brother that I'm coming with you."

Bethany was so surprised by the other mage's pronouncement that she wasn't quite certain she'd heard him correctly. "Excuse me?"

Anders' mouth curved into a rictus. "I said I'm coming along on the expedition," he explained. "Or you aren't going."

The younger mage's brow drew down. "What do you mean?" Her voice had a bit of an edge to it; she'd told the man that he reminded her of her father, but that didn't give him license to make that kind of decision.

The renegade mage was shameless. "You don't know what's down there," he stated. "I do."

"I've fought darkspawn before," Bethany reminded him. "They took my sister."

"You saw disorganised bands," Anders insisted. "On the surface, at the beginning and end of the Blight. You haven't seen them underground, in their element, when there's only a handful of you and hundreds of them waiting for you to make one little slip..." He shook his head. "I am still a Grey Warden," he announced. "It will be burned in my blood until the moment I die, if not longer. I know how to fight them...and, more importantly, I know when to stand and when to run."

All of that was perfectly true, and formed the lion's share of Bethany's hope that the renegade mage would change his mind. She bit her lip against the annoyed retort that threatened. "...Thank you, Anders," she said at last. "I'm going with my brother, and I'll be glad to have you at my side."

The younger mage couldn't tell whether the man grinned or grimaced at her. "But I suppose this means you don't have to warn Isabela to go easy on you," he pointed out, arching a brow. "Though she should watch the hickeys...those  _can_  be dangerous."

Bethany snorted and clapped a hand over her mouth to hide the strength of her blush and grin. "I'll warn her, but it might only make her more interested in them," she admitted.

"Ahh," Anders sighed. "Young lust." He climbed to his feet, reaching for his staff. "Does your mother know?"

"Maker, no!" The younger mage covered her face with both hands. "I...don't know what she'd think, if she found out that I..."

The renegade mage spared her a knowing look. " That you prefer sailors?" He snickered, and then chuckled, and then positively  _cackled_. It wasn't long in infecting Bethany as well, and before too long, the clinic rang with their laughter; the vagrants outside must have thought they'd turned the place into an opium den. "I'm sorry," Anders breathed, managing to school his face. "It's...not very common," he admitted. "But obviously I'm not one to judge. You only have one mother, though...and if she loves you, she might deserve to know."

Bethany caught her breath, chewing on the older mage's words for a few moments. "I...may tell her," she considered. "Eventually. But not about Isabela. I get the feeling neither of them would approve of Mother knowing about it."

"That's probably true," Anders conceded. "I can't see Isabela as the 'take home to mother' type." He looked over his shoulder, out of the gap in the wall that showed Kirkwall's high cliffs across the harbour. "It's late," he pointed out. "You should probably have an escort back to Gamlen's." The renegade mage glanced down at the end of his staff. "I'll need to  _modify_  this, too. There should be a few scoundrels about that I can nick a blade from."

The younger mage was too grateful for his company to scold him for sounding like her father yet again; she and Barcus even helped him slay the knot of bandits who accosted them not ten yards from her uncle's doorstep. True to his word, Anders selected the sharpest-looking blade from the corpses, and bid her goodnight on the stairs, with a promise to see her in Hightown the next morning.

Gamlen jolted away from the writing desk as soon as Bethany crossed the threshold. "I swear," he growled, "you and that knife-ear-lover you call a brother get more letters than I do."

She fixed him with a hard stare. "Where's Mother?" There was nothing of the customary gentleness or warmth in her tone.

"Resting," her uncle grudged, under his breath. His eyes caught on his niece's staff warily, despite his rebellious tone. "So don't wake her up."

Instead, Bethany stalked over to the desk, opening the letter she'd caught her uncle trying to pilfer. "Don't move," she warned him, and he didn't. The letter expressed gratitude that she and her brother had delivered some important Grey Warden documents to a discreet location...but that was weeks before, and such a small thing, she'd almost forgotten about it. "Who delivered this?"

Gamlen cleared his throat. "Big fellow," he said. "Wore a hood and didn't give his name, but said to make sure you got your letter."

"Did he tell you to take the coin in it as a finder's fee, Uncle?" Bethany's eyes narrowed, her fingers curling about her staff.

The older man paled, tossing up his hands. "Now you remember what your mother said, after that business with the will," he rattled off. "She forgave me, and forbade you magicking me again! If not for the love I bear her, I'd have sent you to the Gallows, girl."

Bethany's nostrils flared, her throat thick with annoyance. They'd paid their money to Bartrand, which left them with hardly any coin to spend...and if their gamble fell through, they might wind up needing every copper they could get. But still, Leandra's anguish at the spell she'd cast upon Gamlen rang in the mage's memory. "I'm going out," she announced. "If Mother wakes before I return, tell her I'll see her before we depart."

She didn't wait for her uncle's reply. Instead, Bethany turned heel and marched right back out to Lowtown, with Barcus nipping at her heels. She ignored the cat-calls and thinly-veiled threats from the people she passed by until she made it to the Hanged Man, and the relative sanctuary of Isabela's room.

Isabela thought Anders' caution about hickeys was rubbish, and by the time she sent the mage on her way back home, Bethany agreed . The house was dark and Carver wasn't in their bunk bed, which should've troubled her, but Bethany was so thoroughly exhausted by the pirate's attention that she fell asleep without too much difficulty.

Morning came far too quickly, and brought Carver with it. He looked like he hadn't slept at all. "You look like you haven't slept," he told her, after he'd shaken her awake. "What's with..." Then his eyes narrowed. "What did you do last night?"

Bethany stifled a yawn and rose from the bottom bunk. "I'll tell you later," she mumbled, cognisant of the gap in the door to their broom-closet-sized bedroom. "We should go, before they take our coin and run."

"True enough," Carver conceded. She saw that he wore his full plate armour, with the helmet strapped to his belt. That told her how seriously her brother took their venture, at least.

They didn't speak as they made final preparations; Varric had told them to bring enough rations for the overland trip, but they'd have plenty of supplies in store once they made it beneath the surface. Just as the siblings finished tying up their packs and strode toward the door of the hovel, a shadow fell across their path.

"Please, don't both of you go," Leandra's voice croaked. "It feels as though we've had so little time since coming to Kirkwall..." It was an argument they'd all had before, at least once too often. Their mother's eyes were puffy from crying and lack of sleep. "Carver, dear, I'm begging you to let Bethany remain."

The warrior's lips twitched. "It's her decision, Mother," he allowed.

"And I've made it," Bethany insisted. "Mother...we'll have our house in Hightown, and I can go to all of the fancy dinner parties you like, but not if I get locked up by the templars."

Leandra shook her head. "You've been fine, this whole time! What makes you think you would get caught during the trip?"

Bethany couldn't honestly say. "Call it...a feeling," she replied. "I just know that if Carver goes and I don't, then I'll not be living up to my end of the bargain."

Her brother nodded his support. "We've been in this together, right from the start," he pointed out. "Some people think I'm in charge, but...I wouldn't have made it this far without Bethany."

Their mother's face tensed. "Then why don't you stay, my boy?" She shook her head. "My sweet boy...my beautiful girl." More tears came, then, and she threw her arms around the twins, unmindful of the hard metals they wore. Luckily, Carver had yet to don his greatblade, and Bethany's staff had no sharp points to catch the older woman's flesh. Slowly, reluctantly, the children dissolved into the embrace, tolerating their mother's breathless kisses. If she saw Isabela's presents from the night before, or smelt hints of cinnamon in her daughter's hair or breath, Leandra made no mention of those facts. "Just come back to me," she begged them. "Both of you."

"We'll try, Mother," Carver answered. "But we should go...or this whole summer will have been for naught."

With one last, fierce hug, Leandra let her children melt away into Lowtown. As they passed the Hanged Man, Bethany's eyes flitted to where she knew Isabela's room to be, though it had no windows to pass a final glance through. When the siblings climbed the long stairwell up to Hightown, the mage was shocked to see a large crowd milling about, but then s he was unsurprised at her failure to locate the pirate's faded blue bandana or golden bangles anywhere in the Merchants' Guild plaza.

"Make way," a finely-dressed dwarf boomed in a commanding voice. "Make way! The human partners approach!" The crowd split into two at the dwarf's cajoling, and Bethany stepped beside her brother all the way to the wagon that would take their supplies. A father-and-son duo named Bodahn and Sandal Feddic tended the ass that would haul it all the way to the entrance of the Deep Roads, and a team of dwarven excavators loitered not far away; they would pick up the slack once underground, and hopefully dig through any cave-ins that Carver, Bethany, and Varric couldn't scout around. Many of the dwarves had tattoos on their faces, and Bartrand refused to look at them...but he refused to look at anything that didn't glitter with gold.

"Junior," Varric called, putting up a hand in greeting. "Sunshine! Glad you could make it!" The dwarf inclined his head to their right, and when Bethany turned, she saw Guard-Captain Aveline with a contingent of her men working crowd control. Merrill and Anders stood nearby. Isabela and Fenris were nowhere to be seen, however. Varric spoke up again. "So who else are we taking?"

Carver blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I've run the numbers," Varric informed them, "and I think we've got enough supplies for one more." He spoke hardly above a whisper, clearly afraid of inciting the crowd; most of them were Lowtowners or Darktowners and their families, looking to hire-on at the last minute. "Elf and Rivaini look like they want to sit this one out, and Aveline's probably too busy, so do you want to take Daisy or Blondie?"

"I think we should take Anders," Bethany suggested, as lightly as she could. "He's been to the Deep Roads before and lived to tell about it."

Carver gruffed. "He also said he never wanted to go back," he reminded her.

The mage shrugged. "He might've changed his mind. Anders is a Warden...killing darkspawn is what he's meant to do."

"Yes, it is," Anders broke in. Somehow he'd skirted past the guards without causing the rest of the throng to riot. Bethany saw that the lower third of his staff had been hacked off and replaced with the blade of the sword he'd taken the night before. "And I'm coming with you, whether you want me to or not."

Bartrand snorted. "That ain't your decision to make, human. Varric's in charge of the scouts," he groused.

The named dwarf gave his bearded brother a slight bow. "You honour me!" Then Varric turned to the trio. "We can't take everyone, so you all need to make a decision, and make it fast."

Carver looked from the tall Warden mage to his sister...specifically to his sister's bruised neck. His eyes narrowed the second time around. "Hang on," he grumbled. "Did you two have a  _conversation_  about this? Last night?"

Bethany's scarlet blush probably didn't help her brother's peace of mind. "It's not what you think," she breathed in a rush. "I promise!"

"Well," Anders countered, "it kind of is. Just...not with me." He grinned at the shocked look Bethany shot him.

"I said I'd tell you later," she reminded her brother. "I helped Anders in the clinic yesterday, and we talked-"

"Are you sure that's all you did?" The warrior looked murderously from one mage to the next.

The woman heaved a sigh. "Andraste's soiled smallclothes,  _yes_! Besides, if Anders and I had done anything, do you think there'd be any evidence?" Carver's mouth fell open, but whether it was from the strength of Bethany's curse or the ironclad nature of her insinuation, Bethany couldn't tell.  _Isabela's rubbing off on me_ , she thought, and blushed even more furiously when she realised how that might sound.

Carver swallowed. "This discussion isn't over yet," he vowed, but then he turned and stalked toward Merrill and Aveline. Bethany couldn't catch the words they all passed, but Merrill appeared to deflate slightly, before Aveline said something to cheer her up.

"So," Anders mumbled. "Protective younger brother?"

Varric grunted a laugh. "Pretending to be a protective older brother," he pointed out. "He sure is one to talk. So, tell me Sunshine, who-"

"Later," Bethany hissed, throwing both of them the strongest glare she could muster.

Anders rolled his eyes. "I hear Dairsmuid is lovely this time of year," he commented lightly. Bethany didn't understand his intent, at least not at first.

Varric soon fixed that. "You're joking! Sunshine let the Rivaini catch her?"

Her brother picked just that moment to saunter back from Merrill and the guards. "What's this about my sister and Isabela?" The small smile he'd carried back from his chat with the Dalish mage quickly evaporated as he studied his companions.

Bethany buried her face in her hands to hide the renewed blush. "Can we just go, please?" Mortification was ample motivation to get over her nerves, it seemed. She was just grateful that their mother hadn't followed them into Hightown.

"Sounds perfect," Varric agreed, throwing a glance at his own brother. "It's been a long time coming, Bartrand."

The older dwarf nodded. "That it has, brother. That it has." He clapped his hands, turning to the other dwarves, and a pair of skulking humans Bethany hadn't noticed before. "Get moving, you useless bronto-fodder! The Deep Roads await! "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks goes, as ever, to clafount at fanfiction.net for her excellence and patience in beta-reading. Thanks to wtgw for dropping a couple of comments, too!


	20. INTERLUDE: I'm Not Calling You A Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Seeker has questions, and she enlists the unwilling assistance of a ruggedly-handsome dwarf in her search for answers. But can she trust him to tell her the truth about what really happened?

 

He shouldn't be in this bed. Too many things have happened on this bed for him to sully it with his presence...or maybe he just thinks it's too lumpy. Or it could be that he hasn't eaten in half a day and he's getting a bit on the peckish side. The dwarf sighs and rolls over, trying to find a more comfortable spot, but his eyes are drawn inexorably to the door.

They're out there, he knows, because they're the bastards who dragged him into the bedroom to begin with. The fuckers with the black leather over their armour, the Chantry's sunburst across their breastplates, defaced with an oval eye so that the Sun looks like an iris with no pupil. Just the memory of their hands on his elbows is enough to make his shoulders ache. "I'm too old for this," he growls, and gets up to take a leak. "Junior, if you could only see me now, defiling your marital bed..."

_Why_  had he come back? He's been over it half-a-hundred times since those helmeted cretins dragged him out of his bed in the Hanged Man, the afternoon before. This sentimental bullshit is going to get him killed. "You should've known this was gonna happen," he mumbles, throwing a glare at the door. "If those nug-humping bastards have lain a finger on Bianca, they'll pay," he vows, though there's little heat in it. The truth is, Bianca isn't what she was five years ago. Hell, she's not what she was six months ago, the last time he'd seen Daisy or Paqua. "I'm too old for this," he repeats, a phrase he's hearing more and more often lately.

Varric pauses to gather his thoughts, trying to remember the disparate threads he's weaved over the years, sometimes with Junior's approval and sometimes without. If the dwarf isn't careful, that scary-eyed Nevarran woman will spear him like a dragonling. Gathering his courage, he shambles to the door, hammering three quick beats on it, just to see if his gaolers are paying attention.

"What do you want, little man?" The door isn't thick enough to mask the disdain in the tired bastard's voice.

Varric grunts. Let the fuckers get tired on his account; it'll make up for all of the sleep he's losing. "I'm hungry," he tells them, almost ashamed that he can't spin a termite's nest of lies that would get them to feed him just the same. "You unrepentant..." His voice fades out.  _Damn_ , he thinks, too tired and hungry to think up a good insult. "Feed me," he demands. "Or your boss isn't going to like what I have to tell her when she wakes up."

That gets him some food, if you could call it that.  _Shit_ , he thinks to himself.  _The gruel is almost as lumpy as the bed_. Then he thinks of how the bed must've gotten lumpy in the first place, and suddenly he's off his appetite. The image of Junior making the eight-legged deepstalker with his wife isn't exactly appetising. But Varric makes himself eat anyway.  _Damnit, I miss Bianca_ , he gripes to himself.

He manages to catch a couple of hours that an unwary onlooker might qualify as sleep before it's the gaolers' turn to bang on the door from the other side. "Rise, dwarf," comes the churlish demand. Not even a  _serah_  to smooth it over; can't these blasted Seekers at least observe the niceties? Apparently not. "Lady Pentaghast desires your presence."

Well, doesn't that just beat all? Varric stirs, rubbing the not-quite-sleep from his eyes. He throws on his coat and boots for effect and waddles grumpily over to the door. "Gonna carry me down the stairs, this time?"

The helmed fucks stare at him. "Do we have to?" One of them asks, earnestly.

"No," Varric answers, scratching his chin. "This story's pretty long," he lets on. "What's the prospect of getting a razor sometime this week?"

Instead of replying, the silent Seeker aims a kick at Varric's sternum. He tries to dodge, but falls back on his arse, and takes the boot to his chin instead. "Save your lies for Lady Pentaghast," the talkative one cajoles him. "When she tires of them, we'll make you speak the Truth."

The way he says that last word makes Varric temporarily forget about his sore jaw. "Alright," he concedes. "Help me up, and I'll walk." Bastards.

They march him down the stairs and off to the estate's main sitting room, where Cassandra Pentaghast stands ready to resume her  _interview_...though it's perfectly clear what will happen to the dwarf if he tries to turn around and walk out of there. At least the fire's going, lending the old manse a little warmth. "Good morning, Varric," Cassandra says, gesturing to the high-backed chair he'd sat in for so many card games, years before.

"I've had gooder," the dwarf huffs, pulling himself across the dusty floor and into his chair. "Do you remember where we left off last night, Seeker?" Thankfully, his escort has taken up residence in the main room, out of sight...if not entirely out of mind, he reminds himself, rubbing his chin.

"I believe you were just about to tell me about the Champion's excursion into the Deep Roads," the Seeker muses, her hands crossing behind her back.

Varric smacks his lips. "Right," he growls. "Can a man get something to drink, first?" Hopefully something with a bit of a kick...though not too much. Fuck, he should've known.  _Water_. Sighing, the dwarf wets his mouth. "We thought we were ready for anything," he begins, casting his mind back to that long-ago day. "We had a Grey Warden with us who'd given us all the maps we could ever need, and our pick of entrances."

"Do you wish to spend another night, dwarf?" Cassandra's eyes narrow, but her face is otherwise set, and Varric knows she's got the stones to wait as long as she needs to to hear the story.

"No," the dwarf answers, honestly. For once. "But these things have a shape to them, Seeker, and a life of their own." Maker knows that last was the truth. "If you make me rush, I'm liable to jumble something up, and then Knuckle-dragger and Mouth-breather will take it out on my hide. Besides, you said you wanted all the gory details."

Cassandra's lips flicker at his nicknames, and the dwarf silently scores a point in his favour. "Very well," she allows. "Continue."

Varric clears his throat after taking another sip. "We were confident. Confident enough that the Champion brought her sister along, despite the risks."

"And this sister was the Grey Warden?" Cassandra looks inquisitive, but he knows she's just trying to trip him up.

"No," he corrects her, patiently. "The Warden was Blondie. All the Hawkes had black hair."

The Seeker's faux-innocence hardens. "Why do you not speak the others' names?"

"Now that's just not true," Varric protests, holding up his hands. "There's Aveline and Hawke," he points out, reminded of a very similar protest he'd made to the then-guard-captain when she'd complained at her own lack of a nickname. "We were a  _gang_ ," the dwarf presses on. "Most of us were thieves, some of us apostates, and all of us were killers...except Aveline, of course. She was just a killer, as long as whoever she killed had it coming."

The Seeker turns away abruptly. "Perhaps she is the one I should have brought in to interview, then? Or Bethany?"

Varric nearly chokes on his sip of water, a sudden rush of fear stabbing through him.  _You can work with this_ , he tells himself, and thinks of how easy it would've been for either of those women to defend themselves against the same kind of  _invitation_  he'd so recently been extended. If either of them are still alive, that is. "You can try," he says. "I doubt Aveline would tell you anything, though. You'll have to refresh my memory on who Bethany is." He rubbed his chin. "The name doesn't sound Rivaini, but then again, the Rivaini was always a liar."

Cassandra closes the distance between them in less than the space of a breath.  _Sodding human legs_ , he manages to think, before the dagger's at his throat again, just like yesterday evening. "You know  _exactly_  who Bethany Hawke is, dwarf!"

Varric's head cracks against the high backing of his chair as he leans away rather quickly, but the blade nestles beneath his chin nonetheless. "You must mean Sunshine, then," he breathes, his voice-and his stones-raised a few octaves higher than normal. "The Champion's sister," he clarifies, and feels the blade pull away. "When I asked Mouth-breather for a razor, I didn't think you'd shave me personally, Seeker."

The woman doesn't  _quite_  sneer, but she comes close. "We have sent scouting parties after Bethany...after all of you," she admits. "You are the only one we have found." Varric wonders if some of those _scouting parties_  never made it back to wherever the hell they came from. The Seeker doesn't say, but it wouldn't surprise him. "But you expect me to believe that you spent years with the Champion and her minions without learning their true names?"

"When you make a habit of breaking the law," the dwarf sighs, patiently, "you learn that it's a bad idea to get too involved in your accomplices' personal lives. Especially when one of your accomplices could arrest the rest of you at any time if you slip up." She seems to buy the line, but looks on the verge of more questions. "We're wasting daylight here," Varric scoffs. "Do you want to know what happened underground or not?"

"Go on, then," Cassandra allows, putting more distance between them. "Tell me."

Varric lowers his head and shoulders in a small bow. "As you wish, milady," he coos, using the line as an excuse to rifle through his thoughts. "Like I said, we were too confident. Even Blondie was cracking jokes about the sun shining on Rivain in the autumn." Even now, the memory's enough to twirl his ugly mug into a smirk. "I wouldn't've believed it myself, if Sunshine hadn't kept blushing so furiously. I swear, if we'd kept that up in the Deep Roads, we wouldn't've needed any torches!"

The Seeker makes an annoyed sound. "Is this... _airing_  of a woman's private life really relevant to the Champion's tale, Tethras?"

The dwarf's face falls; she only uses his surname when she's  _really_  serious. "It is," he insists. "It'll become clear later."  _Probably tomorrow_ , he thinks.  _Fuck._  "But if you keep interrupting me, I might prefer to take my chances with Knuckle-dragger." That causes a muscle to flicker in the woman's jaw, but she only nods, this time. "We made it to the Deep Roads in good time, using an entrance at the foot of Kreismount, a couple of days' journey from Kirkwall. A closer one had been intentionally caved-in during the Fourth Blight as a precaution, or so Blondie said. When we finally made it into that cave, my brother and the other dwarves perked up like they were heading home." He shudders, briefly, and then loses himself in the memory.

"Two days of nothing but walking and yammering on, keeping ourselves distracted from the dark and the fact that we weren't headed anywhere but further down. The Deep Roads were...well, Bartrand said they were sodding beautiful, so you can guess what I thought of them. Anyway, we didn't see any darkspawn until the third day.

"That's when we came to the collapse. The excavators worked on it for an hour before they suggested trying to find a way around. Bartrand was so pissed off that he waylaid the sodding blighter who told him, but as always, I came to my dear brother's rescue...fool that I am. Me, Hawke, Sunshine, and Blondie all geared-up to go a-scouting through a side passage that looked promising, except for all the darkspawn waiting there to ambush the caravan. I had about five quivers of bolts with me, in case Bianca got a bit too excited, and the others brought enough food with them to last us all a couple of days. Just when we were all ready to go, though, Bodahn came running over.

"'Someone help!' He said, gasping. 'Sandal's run off into the cavern!' He looked ready to eat his beard. 'I've been calling him back for half an hour, but there's no answer.'

"Hawke just rolled her eyes. 'I guess we can look for him,' she sighed. 'Would you prefer us to bring him back in pieces or bury him when we find him?' She had such a knack for being direct.

"That took the man by surprise, but he must've swallowed his anger. 'My boy's resourceful,' he claimed . 'If he's got some of those enchanted rocks with him, he'll be able to survive for days. He's probably just scared, holed up somewhere out there. If you could bring him back to me...I'd find some way to repay you. I swear it!'

"It was on the way, so I egged Hawke on. 'Couldn't hurt to have a dwarf in your pocket, for once.'

"'Rather than the other way around?' Hawke shot back, but she acquiesced, just the same.

"Hawke and Blondie led the way, while I hung back with Sunshine and the dog." Varric stops short, taking another long sip of his sodding water. His hand shakes as he puts the half-empty glass down. "I'd seen darkspawn before, from a distance, but never in the Deep Roads. Never dozens in a teeming knot of ravening death, just waiting to butcher anyone or anything across their path.

"Blondie was frightening to watch. He went full-on glowing demon and waded into those things like they were high grass; he must've killed more than the rest of us put together, and they just kept coming at him, until that part of the cavern was clear. Even Hawke was grateful he'd come along, then. Shit, I know I was.

"Sandal we found not too long after that first skirmish-and I use that term advisedly, despite how I made it sound a minute ago. The boy was surrounded by a herd of felled darkspawn himself, but when we asked how in the hell he managed to kill them, all he could say was 'Enchantment!'" Varric bites his tongue on the detail of the frozen ogre, and how the boy had claimed that work was  _not enchantment_. Cassandra probably doesn't need to know that part, strictly speaking . "Since the way was clear, he hurried back to his pop, and we kept going. It took us half a day to push through that side passage, and there weren't just darkspawn there to impede us.

"A nest of giant spiders took us by surprise in the middle of a fight; our only consolation was that the creepy things were just as interested in dragging the darkspawn off as they were in us. I guess even those tainted fucks have predators." Cassandra feigns disinterest in his choice of term, but Varric thinks he's seen enough of her stony expressions to recognise displeasure. He barks a laugh. "Anyway, that side passage was fortuitous, in its way. Once we'd gotten rid of the darkspawn and spiders and the sodding dragon that roosted in one of the old chambers-you'd have been proud of us, Seeker-it took hardly any time at all for the excavators to widen the chokepoints enough for our cart to pass through, and we followed the tunnel all the way to the lowest, oldest levels of the Deep Roads.

"Bartrand mushed us on even lower, drunk on rumours from an old scavenger story that supposedly dated back all the way to the last Thaw. I was in a mood, because we'd passed one or two promising thaigs-those are dwarven colonies, by the way-without anything to show for it. But we went down so low that Blondie said we were deeper than the sodding darkspawn.

"And then we found it: an ancient thaig, one so deep and old that nobody in Orzammar remembered it...and trust me, those stone-licking bastards remember a lot. Bartrand was speechless! I was jumpy, just like Hawke and the others; the place was run through with veins of raw lyrium. The blue stuff, like you templars are hooked to, but also a deep, deep red. Despite our misgivings-especially the mages'-Bartrand sent us in to make sure it was safe for him and his thugs to give it a good looting.

"We should've known it was trouble from the start. The streets were calm, clean, caked with dust...but when we made it into the thaig's central square, we were beset by golems and those half-see-through things that Blondie called  _shades_ , probably drawn out of the Fade by all that lyrium. When the stone men were rubble and the spirits had been sent back across the Veil, we investigated a weird place at the very back of the thaig." At this, Varric finishes his glass of water and demands something stronger, for what he knows is coming. The Seeker dithers, but eventually allows him some of the aged brandy from the estate's cellars.

The burn helps to clear the dwarf's mind, putting some distance between his thoughts and his heart. "Thanks," he gruffs, and settles back into his chair. "I guess you'd call this room a shrine. It was like no place me or my brother had ever seen before, and it was just one more piece of evidence that the thaig was positively ancient. Dwarves don't worship things, except their ancestors and their sodding family honour. It was surreal.

"And at the centre of it all was the idol. Blondie and Sunshine refused to go near the thing, but something about it drew me close. It was...captivating, I have to say. It glowed red and seemed to pulse when I touched it.

"Bartrand pulled me out of my haze. 'What've you got up there, Varric?' He called from the floor.

"'Some kind of idol, made from pure lyrium, I think!' I answered him, near to giggling like a sodding child. 'Catch!' It felt right to throw it down to him, like we were both going to be rich.

"When he caught it, my brother whistled. 'Excellent find! See what else is up on that altar!'

"But as we prowled around for more treasure to steal, Hawke sent up a cry and took off, yelling after Bartrand. He...he was trying to shut us up in the shrine, like we were some kind of sacrifice. Somehow I made it to the door just behind Hawke.

"'The door, Bartrand,' I bleated like a nug. 'It's shut behind you!' And it was solid, smooth stone on the inside, almost indistinguishable from the rest of the wall.

"We heard a low cackle sound from outside. 'I know that,' the bastard told us. 'Looks like you're gonna have all that treasure to yourselves in there!'

"I couldn't believe it. 'You're going to double-cross your own brother over one lousy idol?' I bruised my fists on the rock, for all the good it did them.

"He said that the location of the thaig alone was worth more coin than he'd ever seen, and he had no intention of splitting that three ways. And then...there was nothing. Silence from the other side. For more than an hour we worked at the rock; Blondie even managed to glow again, but even his ramped-up spells couldn't budge the door. Too well-made, I guess. Sodding dwarven architecture.

"Eventually we found another door, up behind the altar, but it led down even deeper underground...so deep that the rock was getting hot to the touch. There were more shades and demons waiting for us, too. As a boy, I'd heard legends of the rock wraiths that kept me up nights...but I thought I'd grown out of them by then. I'll tell you, though, no story can prepare you for stone coming alive around you, seemingly intent on nothing else but crushing your bones into paste. I'd almost prefer darkspawn.

"Somehow, some way, we managed to find a way out of those haunted tunnels and into the Deep Roads proper...and back into the maw of the corruption that birthed the darkspawn. The Road that we climbed into was nowhere near the one we'd used to come down, and this one was crawling with the monsters. There were only four of us...five, if you count the dog. But there were upwards of a thousand darkspawn in the passages we traveled through. Blondie helped us sneak around as best we could, but we couldn't avoid them all...and they just kept coming, for hours. For days.

"Sunshine had what we hoped was just a close call when a genlock made it past Hawke and shrugged off my crossbow bolts. The thing cold-clocked her before she could get another spell off, and it looked like it was trying to drag her aw ay...until the dog came at it, all barks and teeth and claws.

"Blondie yelled something I don't remember, but he and Hawke had their hands full keeping their own hides alive. I tried to help Sunshine, I swear I did, but my legs can only move so fast...and by the time I and the dog beat the darkspawn off, she'd gotten a fair amount of blood on her. It took too sodding long for the Warden and her sister to take down the rest of them and come over.

"We all knew what all that blood might mean, especially Hawke. Remember, she'd lost her brother to that ogre just outside of Lothering, and then she had to put Aveline's husband out of his misery. Blondie cleaned Sunshine up as best he could, and he said there was a good chance she'd be fine...but within hours, that proved a shot in the dark.

"I was stunned when Sunshine fell down. It's shocking how quick the foulness spreads through somebody, but her eyes were milky, and her veins had started turning black underneath her skin. Hawke was beside herself with grief. Anger. She damn near tried to kill Blondie, said that he'd promised to protect Sunshine, that that was the only reason Hawke had let him come.

"Blondie took Hawke's punches without fighting back, and then he made an offer."

The Seeker makes a noise, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. "It's true, then? Bethany became a Warden?"

Varric grits his teeth; getting shaken back to reality doesn't agree with him. "...Yes, Seeker," he grudges. "He tracked down some Grey Wardens that were close by-they might have even been the reason for all those damned darkspawn, Blondie told us, later-and he convinced their leader to take Sunshine away."

"Did you see her afterward?" Cassandra taps her chin, her eyes dagger-sharp.

The dwarf pauses, sucking down some more of the water she'd given him while he was talking. "No," he allows. "Not right away, anyway. Not for years...but we'll come to that," he points out. "There's plenty more to tell about the Champion between where Sunshine left off and when she came back."

The Seeker nods. "Then I would hear it all, dwarf. Continue, if you please."

It doesn't please him in the slightest, but he doesn't tell her that. Keeping himself alive to fondle Bianca again pleases him most of all, so Varric keeps telling her what he thinks-hopes-she wants to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One-third of the way through! Thanks to my awesome beta-reader, clafount, from FF.net. I wouldn't have got this far without her!


	21. Foundlings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Hawkes left Kirkwall for the Deep Roads, and two Hawkes will emerge from beneath the ground...but the will return to far different lives.

 

She was getting used to the darkness by now, hardly able to remember the last time she'd seen the Sun. Silence was not a problem, though; the two men with her made sure she got little sleep, even when she wasn't on watch, either by their nightmare-born screams or the more pleasurable noises they made to get back to sleep. One of them kicked from where he lay behind her, his foot skittering over the loose gravel of their impromptu campsite. The girl wondered, not for the first time, why they'd come to trust her to watch them sleep; it'd be easy for her to slit their throats. It'd be nothing.

Then the girl remembered that they hadn't always been so trusting, not until they'd dragged her so far beneath the ground that a kilometre of rock and an uncountable, unknown army of darkspawn separated her from any hope of getting home. "Stupid," she hissed, returning her eyes to the mouth of their little cave, not knowing if the comment was meant for her or for her gaolers.

She'd been stupid. She'd been desperate. She'd been brave. She was lucky to be alive.

She was cursed.

A scuffling sound tickled at her ears from beyond the mouth of the cave, somewhere out in the Deep Roads. The echoes distorted the noise's origin beyond recognition, but it set her on edge nonetheless. Another spasm took one of the men, but he did not stir after he gave a low moan. It could have been a simple coincidence, she thought, until the two things occurred again-the scuffle, then the jerk and moan.

Swallowing her nerves, the girl tightened her grip on her hatchets, the finest things she'd ever possessed. "Stroud," she breathed, her voice uneven. When he failed to rouse, she repeated his name more loudly.

The man jerked, and was fully awake within seconds, picking up his enormous flatblade as he rose. The slimmer man, who called himself  _la Mainerouge_ , was not long in following, stringing his bow and knocking an arrow before the girl could fully stand. The two shared a brief, blistering exchange in Orlesian before Stroud looked to her with a grimace and a nod. "It is time to go," he said, which was four more words than he'd spoken to her since the last time they'd moved camp.

The darkspawn were too thick in the passage to confront, and there were no convenient chokepoints to set up an ambush where Monroi could pick the fiends off while she and Stroud cut them down, so the three Grey Wardens retreated. More Orlesian muttering as they melted from shadow to shadow, even the big Stroud fleet of foot in the near-total darkness. They managed to outrun the horde, to skirt through another side-passage that looked to connect to another Deep Road, perhaps a level below them.

Stroud stopped short, tilting his head as though listening intently. The girl closed her eyes, but she could hear nothing other than the distant chorus of darkspawn they'd fled. "What are we stopping for?" She didn't dare put up her hatchets.

The large Warden considered her for a moment, his moustache bending with the depth of his frown. "There are more 'spawn ahead of us," he allowed, evidently judging her worthy. "But perhaps not so many as behind." He continued talking with his companion in the tongue she didn't know, and the girl wondered how either of them had come from Ferelden-if, indeed, they'd told her the truth. "We must make haste," Stroud announced, and signaled for her to take point with him.

The girl ignored the fluttering of her pulse as she strode up the narrow passageway, a half-step in front of the enormous Orlesian. Soon her ears twinged again, picking up more distant echoes, and she had to force herself to keep up the half-jogging pace that her gaolers demanded. Certain death behind her, and not just in the form of the darkspawn, was all that kept the girl moving toward the probable death which lay in front. As the passage's exit drew nearer, however, the echoes resolved quite suddenly into the sound of combat-with grunts and curses that the girl understood. "There's fighting," she called over her shoulder. " _People_  fighting!"

Stroud prodded her into a run. "You're certain?" But it wasn't long until he must've heard it, too, for the man brushed past her just before she came to the end of the passageway.

The girl sucked in a breath to steady her terror, diving into the Deep Road after the man who'd ruined her life. She should've aimed her hatchets at his back, rather than at the half-rotten monsters that swarmed around him...but then the blighters would've overrun him, and her not long after. She knew she didn't deserve any better, but years of honing her will to live, along with her hatchets, had bred deep survival instincts into the girl . That's why she'd yielded to Stroud in the first place.

Such thoughts couldn't distract the girl for long as she ducked and rolled, chopped and sheared, cleaved and parried. The ranks of darkspawn thinned surprisingly quickly, and before she knew it, the girl was panting over the last twitching corpse, breathing in the foul air to get her bearings. After only a moment of exulting in her victory, in her survival, the girl's ears twitched at the sound of Stroud stepping away from her.

"Anders," he growled. A glance revealed a filthy squad-three shems, a dwarf, and a dog- though how Stroud knew they were from the Anderfels was a mystery to the girl. She moved closer, curious, and Stroud continued. "I had not thought to see you beneath the ground again." Again?

The tallest stranger didn't look any more pleased than Stroud had sounded. He and the other male shem supported a woman between them, and it only took a second to realise that the woman's end wouldn't be long in coming. The girl could practically feel her fever over the distance between them. "I wouldn't have come here," the tall shem said, "unless it was urgent. Unless...I had no other choice." He gave the woman in his grasp a pained, sorrow look.

La Mainerouge had caught up with Stroud and the girl by then, but she'd had yet to hear him speak in the King's Tongue, so she was unsurprised when Stroud kept talking. "Anders," he sighed. "You know more than anyone that we do not recruit out of pity." The girl understood, then, that 'Anders' must be the tall shem's name.

"This isn't a request for pity," the man, Anders, insisted. "The girl has some skill, at healing and other magic. She just needs a chance."

A glance told the girl that Stroud was unconvinced. "Do these others understand what you ask?" He gestured to the other shem and the dwarf. "What is this girl to you?"

The black-haired shem bristled. "I'm her bloody brother," he growled.

"Then you should know that the Grey Wardens are not a refuge from the taint," Stroud sighed.  _No_ , the girl thought, grimacing.  _They're a sodding prison_.

The boy looked from Stroud to Anders, then to his sister, and back to Stroud once more. "All I know is that Bethany deserves to live," he stated, his voice shaking. "And if she doesn't...neither will any of you." The girl could have sworn that his eyes flashed red for an instant, but she put it down to a trick of the light.

La Mainerouge chuckled from her left. " _Il a l'esprit_ ," the smaller Warden commented. "  _Peut-etre la soeur aussi_?"

" _Possiblement_ ," Stroud retorted. He seemed a shade more interested.

"She does," Anders insisted. A moan from the girl, Bethany, took his attention for a moment, but he seemed to come to a decision as he looked back at the Wardens. "She knew the Commander, as a child," the tall shem informed them. "The Commander would be...grateful, if she knew Bethany still breathed. If she could see her again."

A long breath turned into a low growl as Stroud considered, evidently torn between the emotional blackmail and the promise it-and the woman herself-seemed to offer. "Very well," he allowed, and Anders and Bethany's brother visibly sagged with relief. "But know that any debt remaining between us is paid in full," Stroud stipulated.

Anders nodded soberly. "I will keep that in mind." He looked like he wanted to say something else for the space of a breath, but instead, the shem just shook his head and took stronger hold of Bethany.

The brother stepped across the gap with her, as she was transferred from Anders' grasp to Stroud's. "I...love you, Beth," the boy breathed, touching her tainted face.

"...I...know," Bethany managed. "Car..."

"We must move quickly," Stroud broke in. "If we are to make the surface in time." He turned, hefting his burden in both arms. "Let us depart, before our combined presence draws the multitude."

The two groups went in different directions, as quickly as their legs could carry them. Stroud's pace was undampened by Bethany's weight, and he didn't breathe a word for more than an hour of marching. The dog followed them, leaving the other group behind, its eyes and ears never pointed away from the half-conscious woman for long . Hope sprang within the girl, that she might see the Sun and breathe fresh air, since Stroud had mentioned the surface...but of course, as he found another cave and made camp, the girl realised that he'd lied.

Stroud and la Mainerouge set to work building a small fire. Once it was lit, the smaller man produced a familiar silver cup from his pack, and Stroud set to mixing liquids from three different flasks within. One of them had been recently emptied when the girl herself had seen the cup for the first time, but Stroud had refilled it with darkspawn blood at the first opportunity, days ago. If  _days_  even meant anything down here.

The larger man threw a glance her way. "Do you still remember the words, Faenathiel?" It was the first time he'd ever used her name.

She swallowed, mindful of the chill in her gut. "I do," she answered, honestly. "I will never forget them." She wished she could. When Stroud lifted his eyebrows at her, though, Faenathiel understood his meaning implicitly. Warily, she put up her hatchets and moved closer, taking the cup from her gaoler. The contents glowed a deep crimson and smelt as foul as she remembered. Both of the other Wardens held Bethany in a kneeling position, one at each of her arms. The girl saw that la Mainerouge gripped her staff in his off-hand, and that it too was dyed red, just like the poison that the woman would have to drink. The dog whined, sitting nearby.

"Join us, sister," Faenathiel intoned, and a reverent silence fell over her gaolers. "Join us in the shadows, where we stand. Vigilant." Bethany mumbled, her eyes threatening to screw up into her head, but Faenathiel didn't increase the pace of her words-there was no sense in rushing the other woman to her fate. "Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish," she breathed, unable to meet Bethany's corrupted face any longer, "know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten." The girl brought the silver chalice to the other woman's lips. "And that one day," Faenathiel hissed, tipping the cup up, "we shall join you."

Stroud's hand on the woman's jaw kept it open, and Faenathiel showed no mercy in filling Bethany's mouth with the awful foulness. Bethany spluttered, but the big Warden clamped his hand over her mouth, forcing her to swallow every drop. A chill passed over Faenathie's spine as she witnessed the shem girl writhe and then go limp. Stroud lowered her down onto the cavern floor, holding a pair of fingers against her neck, unmindful of the distressed growls the girl's hound emitted. It must have understood their intent, however, for it still did not attack. "She will live," the Warden announced, his eyes lancing toward Faenathiel. "And you will watch her and her pet."

The girl nodded, numbly. Had she looked so tortured? Had she writhed so pitifully? A moment later, the Orlesians had moved to the cave's entrance, settling into a muted conversation. Faenathiel could hear every word, but she couldn't understand a single one, so she didn't know why they bothered to whisper.

It was a good six hours before the newly-minted Grey Warden stirred. Faenathiel had snatched a few minutes' rest, here and there, exhausted by her interrupted watch and the battle that had preceded the enlargement of their party. She was attentive when Bethany began to stir, wary of the dog, who rested its head on its forelegs. The woman's brown eyes fluttered open and fixed upon the girl's face, confusion seeping past the pall of terror that the new recruit's Joining nightmare had bred in her. "...Ath...adra?"

Faenathiel arched a brow. "What?" The others had spoken the King's Tongue well enough; were they really from the Anderfels, after all?

Bethany blinked several times, grasping at her throat. "Wa..." The slightly-elder Warden knew just what to do. After Bethany had taken a few pulls from Faenathiel's waterskin, she composed herself for a couple of moments. "I'm...sorry," the other woman said at last. "You just reminded me of someone I used to know."

"Someone called Athadra?" Now that Faenathiel thought about it, the name sounded suspiciously like someone she knew, but she didn't make mention of that fact.

Bethany nodded. Her face was still wan, but in the small fire's embers, the elf didn't notice those dark tendrils lurking beneath her skin. "They say she's the Warden-Commander," the woman went on, a bit weakly. "Is that...true?"

The elf closed her eyes for a breath. "I wouldn't know," she admitted, returning her gaze to the shem. "I'd never been outside of Lowtown until two or three weeks ago, when those Orlesian bastards dragged me down here."

"You're from Kirkwall?" The woman's ordeal kept most of the shock from her voice, but Faenathiel detected enough to amuse her.

"Born and bred in the Alienage," the elf admitted. "You?"

Bethany hesitated and then shook her head. "Not originally...but I lived in Lowtown for..." Her face crumpled as she thought. "Too long," she breathed, at last. "I was born in Highever," the woman ventured, after another long pause. "Me and my brother...but we had to move around a lot when we were small."

Faenathiel's eyes settled on the woman's staff. "I'd bet," she allowed. "What brought you to the City of sodding Chains?"

The woman took a breath. "The Blight," she barked, pulling her dog's head into her lap to pet it idly. "Funny how the darkspawn have taken me away from it, now." She considered the embers, lapsing into another silence, which Faenathiel was happy to oblige. Eventually, however, the woman's curiosity must have gotten the better of her. "You're new to the Wardens, then?"

The elf shrugged. "Not as new as you," she pointed out.

"I suppose," Bethany conceded. "Why did you decide to become one?"

Faenathiel's eyes grew cold. "Same reason as you, I suspect," she gruffed. "Had no choice." Except death, and that was no choice at all. "I floated a few coins out of the short shem's pocket," she explained, before the woman could beg her for details. "Then I didn't have the good sense to die when the big fucker caught me and tried to teach me a lesson."

If her new companion was surprised at the elf's admission of thievery, she didn't show it. Perhaps she  _had_  lived in Lowtown, after all. "That's...horrible."

"It was predictable," Faenathiel countered. "La Mainerouge was too easy a mark. I should've known he was setting me up."

Bethany's eyebrows rose. "La who?"

"La Mainerouge," Faenathiel repeated. "He's the little one. The big guy's called Stroud." She grunted. "They're...Orlesian."

The woman nodded. "I suppose that explains the nickname."

It was Faenathiel's turn to raise her eyebrows. "You know Orlesian?"

Bethany coughed; if her throat hadn't been so dry, it might have been a giggle. She found her own waterskin and slaked her thirst before answering. "Only a little...enough to know that 'la main rouge' means 'the red hand'."

The elf smirked, understanding the man's mismatched gloves at last. "Don't bother asking the bastards anything. Their names are all I've gotten from them so far."

That caused Bethany's lips to thin. "I'll remember," she vowed. "You said they set you up?"

"Must have," Faenathiel answered. " Red-hand's coinpurse was filled with pewter discs instead of silver, and Stroud was waiting close by, ready." She shook her head. "I figure they were looking for someone to bring with them. I'd bet Athenril was just chuffed if she ever heard about it."

The other woman had another surprise in store. "You knew Athenril?"

The elf's brow drew down. "Did you?"

Bethany shrugged. "I...met her, once, when me and my family were trying to get into Kirkwall. She offered to help us in return for a year's worth of work."

"You turned her down," the elf stated, grim satisfaction in her tone. "Good. She swindles her associates almost as much as her marks." More time passed, with little but the dog's snores to fill their ears, when a streak of curiosity crossed Faenathiel's mind. "So how did you get into Kirkwall, anyway?"

She wasn't prepared for the dark shadow which passed over the other woman's face. "Our uncle," Bethany said. "He had debts...to Athenril, and to someone named Meeran, who ran a group of mercenaries." She shook her head. "My brother and another refugee who was with us thought that killing people was better than stealing from them."

Faenathiel's head tilted. "You disagree?"

"I did," the woman admitted. "But...I got used to it, after awhile." Her voice was hollow again for a moment, like it had been when she'd just woken up.

Faenathiel grimaced. "Athenril promised me there'd be no killing, unless we had no choice. But she refused to share her takings with the Coterie, so they didn't often give us one."

Bethany offered a shrug. "I guess I didn't have one, either." The edges of her lips curled up, but she still looked sad. "It's funny...I've missed Athadra for half my life, and wanted to see her for years."

"Now I guess you will," the elf observed. "If we're lucky." Another wonder struck her, then. "Why in the Void were you down here, anyway?"

The woman's tentative smile faltered, and she covered her mouth with her hand. "We were trying to build a life," she whispered, through her fingers. "My brother and I. Find some treasure that the darkspawn hadn't spoilt, move into Hightown..." Her voice shook, and Faenathiel was glad when she hid her tears in her dog's thick neck. It whimpered in time with her silent sobs for a few minutes, and the elf had no words of comfort to offer either of them. "I'm...sorry," Bethany allowed, once she'd recovered a bit of dignity.

Faenathiel shrugged, looking away. "Don't be. It's not easy, trading a life in Hightown for... _this_ ," she hissed, sweeping her hand across their dank cavern.

"But," Bethany pressed on, "I'm sure it's not so easy for you, either. You must've..." Her words trailed off. "It's not my business."

"It's not," the elf concurred. "But...thanks." She spared her companion a brief smile, for her interest and her kindness in not pressing it. "I haven't talked this much since I took the cup." She did her best to ignore the other woman's insinuation; she hadn't had much to lose, really. Maybe her mother, but she would survive. Faenathiel hoped so, at least. "So...you're an apostate?"

The elf's eyes ached when a brief flicker of flame sprouted from the end of the other woman's index finger, confirming her magical status. The mage took up her staff, sighing, as though its presence in her grip revitalised her. "We settled in a village called Lothering," Bethany volunteered. "When my brother and I were six years old."

"Never heard of it," Faenathiel admitted.

"You wouldn't have," Bethany observed. "It's...it  _was_...nothing like Kirkwall," she explained. "Now it's just nothing, I suppose." The elf had no answer to that, so she said nothing. The other woman gathered herself and looked to change the subject. "So...what do you know about the Grey Wardens?"

Faenathiel considered. "Stories, mostly," she admitted. "Never even saw one that I knew of until the big guy pulled that fucking cup out of his sack." The elf closed her eyes, trying to ignore the shiver that crawled over her shoulders. "I really thought that the darkspawn were a myth," she breathed. "Something the shems made up, like their other Chantry stories. Even after we heard tell of the Blight, it didn't seem real."

The mage took a deep breath. "Some people still don't think it was," she pointed out. "Keep your eyes shut." Suspicion rose within Faenathiel, her fingers itching to grip the handles of her hatchets, but after a heartbeat she learnt the reason for Bethany's request; the embers glowed more brightly, and their corner of the cave warmed a bit.

When the elf chanced to open her eyes again, she saw the other woman's features more clearly. She was a girl, really, no older than Faenathiel herself. "But now I know better."

Bethany just nodded, and the two new Wardens sat by their revivified fire, sipping from their waterskins in silence for a long stretch. A boot scraped stone beside them, making both of the women jump in surprise. Stroud's face was steeped in shadows cast by the glow of the embers, so even the elf had trouble reading his expression. "You are able to walk unaided?"

The mage pushed the sleeping dog from her lap and slowly pulled herself to a standing position, using her staff and the rock wall to help her. "I think so, serah," she answered, not quite meeting the large man's gaze. "I...guess I should thank you."

"You should not," he corrected her, but he held out a wooden bowl, just the same. "Eat. We move in five minutes."

When Bethany took the bowl, Faenathiel saw that it was crusted with the same surprisingly flavourful paste they'd fed her on for weeks. The other woman looked at it skeptically, but her stomach growled angrily, and so she dipped her fingers into the glue-like mixture. Stroud gave a clipped nod when Bethany made a sound of pleasant surprise. Just as he turned to go, though, the woman spoke up again. "Where are we going?"

Stroud's dark eyes glinted from his shadowed vantage as he regarded the both of them. "Home," he grudged, and stalked away before they could ask him anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my beta-reader, clafount!


	22. Upping The Ante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The son returns to Kirkwall, though it appears that the sun will never properly shine on him again. How will he deal with his newfound wealth and position?

 

"So, what are the rules, again?" The elf's fingers fumbled over her card and she bit her lip, looking but not seeing the bearded face painted on what she held.

Isabela made a noise with her tongue. "They're simple, kitten," she sighed. "We each draw a card, and whoever's got the most valuable one gets to deal out two more to both of us."

Merrill sucked at her bottom lip. "Does that mean we show our cards now? Or...later?"

The pirate chuckled, flipping her card face-up on the small table. They were in Merrill's house, with its draughty door and its leaking roof, while a Kingsway storm raged over Lowtown. In the flickering candlelight, Merrill saw the image of a woman in a cowl holding a cup over her head. "Now it's your turn. What've you got?" When the elf exposed her robed, bearded man, Isabela clucked her tongue. "Damn," she drawled, though her lips were still curved in a smirk. "You've got the magician."

" Is that bad?" Merrill got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Most people seem to think mages are bad, especially in this city," she pointed out. "And I understand that sometimes we can do bad things and we're vulnerable to spirits," the mage admitted, casting her eyes away from the table and trying not to think of Anders...or Bethany. Or...or her brother. "It wouldn't surprise me if it's the lowest card. .."

Isabela's laugh was like mead, thick and rich and almost too sweet. "It's the best one, kitten," the pirate cooed. "Right above the priestess," she informed the elf, tapping her own card. "It means you get to be the dealer."

Merrill swallowed. "Ohhh," the elf marveled, her ears pricking up. "That's good, right?"

"It is," Isabela assured her. She took both cards and added them to the deck, sliding it toward the mage. "Now you get to shuffle and deal out two, and then make a wager."

The elf nodded a bit too enthusiastically, and she was grateful that her friend hadn't brought any liquor, or else she'd already have lost focus...what with one thing and another. As Merrill did her best to shuffle the cards, though, something in the pirate's grin made her suspicious. "Isabela," she breathed inquisitively. "Did you...cheat, to make sure I got to be the dealer? Like you did at the party?"

The pirate's brows nearly disappeared beneath her bandana, and she laid a hand over her breastbone. "On my honour, kitten, I would  _never_!"

"But..." Merrill's eyes narrowed. "But it's the same game as then, and..." She almost said  _Varric said you cheated to lose_ , but she couldn't think about Varric, couldn't spend a day and a night with her guts in a knot, wondering where he and Anders and everyone else were. Instead, the mage took a breath, and tried to look serious. "Are you lying to me?"

The pirate gave her another honey-wine laugh. "Maybe," she conceded. "But what's done is done, so divvy out the cards and tell me what to take off."

The elf sighed, but she followed the other woman's direction, nevertheless. Merrill picked the card from the top and bottom for Isabela, and fished two from the middle of the deck for herself. "Now..." Her eyes cast about as she considered what she should put up for a wager, and they landed in the corner where Carver always put his sword, before they got down to work. "Daggers," the elf said, half-consciously.

Isabela cocked her head. "Have you even got any, kitten?"

"I'm a blood mage," Merrill pointed out, as though it should be obvious.

"Ah," Isabela replied, a bit of mirth draining from her for just a heartbeat, before she gave Merrill a wide grin. "Very well. I'll take your knife from you if you really want. Now we each show a card, and you decide whether you want to bet anything more. Are you ready?"

The mage nodded, and as one, they flipped over one of their cards. Merrill's was another man, but clean-shaven, with a crown overtop a hood of chainmail. Isabela's card was very similar to the one she'd drawn before, but with a distinctly male figure holding the cup. "That must be a very good one," the elf commented. "You said the priestess was right below the magician, so...that must be the priest?"

The pirate made a gasp of delight. "Very good, kitten. It  _is_  the priest...but it's actually the lowest card." Her eyes danced. "You have a king, which is fairly good. Do you want to wager something else?"

Merrill squinted, trying to sort out the jumbled game of diamondback they'd all played at the Hawkes' birthday party...without thinking of the Hawkes themselves, of course, which made it more difficult. She seemed to recall Isabela egging several people on to wager more garments using the same card. "No," the elf said at last, blinking the memory away. "I think I'll stick with our weapons."

"Very well," Isabela conceded. "Now let's flip the other card..." When they did so, Merrill saw that Isabela had somehow gotten the magician, while she herself had somehow gotten another king. "Oh, I'm sorry, kitten," the pirate cooed, but she didn't really sound sorry at all. "I  _did_  warn you, though..."

Without really thinking about it, Merrill retrieved her  _da'mis'u_  and placed it on the table between them. Her eyes caught on the red hilt, and she couldn't help remembering all of the evenings spent using it to shed a few drops of her blood, or Carver's...which led her to recall the ideas they'd spoken of, about magic and spirits, but also about elves and humans and dwarves, about soldiering, about history. The mage felt her cheeks growing damp, and felt a splash on the back of her hand. She glanced at the roof, expecting to find another leak, but Merrill could only see blurred wood.

Isabela made a thoughtful noise. "What's the matter, Merrill?"

When the elf spoke, she couldn't manage more than a choked whisper. "I'm so worried! They...said they'd be back by now!" Her hands shook as she brought them up to her face, hardly able to see the pirate through her fingers. " _Mythal_ , I'm so worried..."

Isabela took hold of her wrists, gently, pulling her arms down to the table. "I know, Merrill," she breathed. "And you can never,  _ever_ , repeat what I'm about to tell you to anyone else...even me. Do you understand?" The pirate's voice got that stern quality to it that made chills run over Merrill's shoulders, and the elf could only nod. Then Isabela's face twitched, her brows knitting and the corners of her lips hinting downward. "So am I."

* * *

Lowtown stank as awfully as Carver remembered, but not nearly so bad as the darkspawn had. The black blood had gotten all over his armour, in his hair, on his face. Some of it still lingered on him, despite underwater spring they'd found just before the surface, where they'd all bathed as best they could.  _Why hadn't it been him_? It should have been him. Bethany had been so careful, and she'd been looking forward to moving into the estate in Hightown so much, while he could give a toss. Lowtown stank, but it was a good stink. Piss and shit and a hundred different kinds of food; fish and tar from the docks; ash and iron from the foundries. The stink of life. Carver was born in a barn and had grown up in the woods-he'd never be able to make it in Hightown.

"Home sweet home," Varric groaned, just inside the gate. He sighed when he sat his sack down. "Do you think we'll get lucky and find Bartrand up in the Merchants' Guild?"

Carver hiked his burden higher on his bare shoulders. His sword, armour, and padding had been too fouled by taint to risk bringing back into the city, according to Anders, so he'd abandoned them in the Deep Roads just before the three would-be expeditionaries emerged in the Vimmark Mountains. "He won't be there for long, if I have anything to say about it." The warrior scoffed at himself for ruing his armour-he'd lost his twin sister, his other half. He didn't even know if she was still alive.

Varric grimaced, scratching madly at his nearly three-week-old beard. "Maker's shaggy balls, I need a razor," he spat. "And not just to slit my traitor brother's throat. I'll let you know if I hear anything on him." The dwarf shook his head. "I'm...sorry about your sister, Junior."

"She'll make it," Anders cut in. He carried four sacks of loot, his load and Bethany's both...the best of what they'd found in the deeper ruins of the primeval thaig Bartrand had tried to make their tomb. "Bethany's a strong woman, and a fine mage."

Carver wasn't sure whether he wanted to throttle the Warden again or thank him. "If she does...I hope she can forgive me," he mumbled, looking down at the dusty road beneath his feet, annoyed that the daylight still hurt his eyes.

The dwarf between them grunted, picking up his sack again. "Sunshine'll be alright," he gruffed. "And you'll be a wealthy man, Hawke...it wasn't all for nothing." Varric nodded further down the road. "Now let's get this shit back to the Hanged Man before we get mugged, and I'll start to shake out my contacts for buyers."

Neither the warrior nor the mage had any argument, and so they all shuffled their way deeper into Lowtown, twisting and turning through the narrow alleys and doubling-back at the right cross-streets. Carver remembered just how maddening navigating Lowtown could be, and he remembered that it had been designed with slaves in mind, back when it was part of the Tevinter Imperium; wide avenues and direct routes were as essential to a good revolt as sharp pickaxes and unaired grievances.

The Hanged Man offered Carver's eyes a brief reprieve from sunlight, if not his nose from the smell of the place he'd come to call home. It was nearly empty, but that wasn't terribly unusual for a mid-afternoon, and suited the warrior's purposes just fine; the fewer people who knew about their return, the better...at least until the money came in. He dumped his loot beside Varric's bed and bid the dwarf a good afternoon, with a promise to return once he'd told his mother about Bethany and gotten some clean trousers. Anders strode beside him in silence, and kept going once the warrior had turned up the stone steps to Gamlen's dilapidated house, no doubt headed for his rathole in Darktown.

The man himself answered the door at Carver's pounding knock, his wrinkled face twisting in a spasm of shock and just a little bit of fear. That hint of dread raised Carver's hackles enough to cross the threshold, but his own expression softened when he caught sight of his mother.

Leandra leapt up from her rickety chair, dropping her cup of tea to the hardwood floor. "Oh, my baby boy," she exclaimed, bounding closer to him.

"No!" Carver threw out a hand, praying for her to stop. "Don't...come too close," he sighed, when she halted. "Not until I've burnt my trousers and boots and had a bath, at least."

The woman's brows knitted in concern, but she nodded all the same. "I understand," she assured him. "We were so worried about you..."

The warrior tossed a glance at Gamlen. "I'll just bet."

Leandra sighed, unable to contain her happiness for a brief instant, before a flicker of confusion crossed her features. Then she asked the question Carver had been dreading for days. "Where is your sister, Carver?"

His lips parted, but his throat was too thick to speak through. He couldn't meet his mother's eyes. "I...don't know," he managed, after swallowing.

The hitch in Leandra's voice made him wince. "Is she c-coming back?"

Carver's shoulders lifted. "I'm not sure." He closed his eyes against the sight of his mother collapsing into a heap on the dirty floor, willing his knees to lock in place even as they threatened to buckle and send him sprawling to join her. He couldn't even pull the woman into his arms without fear that he'd give her Bethany's fate, and the warrior knew that another miracle from Anders wouldn't be forthcoming, in that case. Instead, Carver's voice went cold, and he made himself look at Gamlen. "Get her out of here, and don't bring her back for at least an hour. Maybe two."

"Don't tell me what to do, boy," Gamlen protested, but when Carver took a step toward him, the older man threw up his hands. "Alright," he conceded, and he moved to gather up his sister. The man had to half-drag her out the door.

Once they were gone, Carver stripped off his boots, trousers, and smallclothes. He burnt them all in the fireplace, and then he washed every centimetre of himself with soap and hot water. He even scrubbed the floor where his boots had trod, before burning the brush and the bucket he'd used for water. Only then did the warrior dress himself in a padded, sleeveless shirt and thin trousers. Just before he left, Carver armed himself with the dagger Bethany had worn during her time with the Red Iron, just to be safe. Somehow the false bottom in her trunk hadn't been tampered with during their absence, and so he left the house with a fifty-three silvers to his name.

The Hanged Man was far less subdued upon the warrior's return; the low-burning roar of a dozen conversations filled the air just as thickly as the smoke from the braziers. As Carver passed by the floor on his way to the bar, one of the patrons inspected him closely. "It's one of the Hawkes!" At the man's cry, a whistle sounded, followed by a general cheer. Evidently, the Hanged Man's customers had absorbed Varric's tales about the upcoming expedition to such an extent that its apparent success brought a sense of heady victory to the crowd.

Norah, one of the bartender's serving girls, sauntered up with a hopeful gleam in her eye. "Anything I can get you, serah?"

Carver gritted his teeth. "I'm not bloody rich yet," he growled, brushing past her to take a stool at the bar, ignoring the hurt in the woman's eyes.  _She'll get over it_ , he thought, and turned to the bartender. "Whiskey, Corff," he barked. "And lots of it."

Corff obliged, pouring a half-glass of cloudy brown. "Firs' one's on the 'ouse, messere," the bartender informed him, as Carver pounded the drink back and slammed the glass down for another. "The res'll be on Messere Tethras' tab, tonigh'."

With hardly a rustle, someone claimed the stool beside the warrior. "Then make the next one a  _good_  whiskey," a familiar voice demanded.

Carver didn't turn to look. "Had any luck finding that mysterious piece of treasure what got your ship wrecked?"

The pirate sighed. "No, sadly," she admitted, and then snatched up Carver's glass when Corff put some amber into it.

"Tha's goin' on your tab, Isabela," the bartender warned.

"Hey now," the Rivaini shot back. "What Hawke does with his liquor is his own business!"

The warrior made sure that he got the next drink, and he growled at the subtler burn that slid down his throat. He knew drinking on an empty stomach was stupid...especially since he'd had more than a dozen days of half-empty stomachs behind him. But Carver had done everything as best he could up to now, his whole life. He'd lived every day for his father and his sisters, hiding with them, shirking friends, never quite understanding why.

Isabela kept talking beside him, but the warrior wasn't listening. He took another drink, remembering Ostagar. His one big act of rebellion, his one chance to make a life for himself, to serve his country and make his mother proud. And what had it cost him in the end? Cethlenn was dead, and he knew she wouldn't be if he'd stayed home. They could've run weeks before, they could've made it to Kirkwall or Starkhaven without having to pay a queen's ransom to get in.

"Bethany's gone." He managed to say the words somewhere around drink number five, but he'd really lost count by then. Isabela had taken nearly as many, and Corff the bartender had stopped scolding her by then.

Background noise washed over them as Carver took another drink, his throat inured to the burn by now, even if his stomach still felt hollow. After the pirate stole another shot, she planted her elbow on the bar. "What do you mean?"

He hadn't known they were...close, until the morning of the expedition's departure. Even though the pirate's flirting had been obvious in retrospect, he'd seen it as simple teasing. Even now part of him refused to believe it. "Gone," Carver repeated. "Maybe dead." At long last, the warrior turned his head to warily regard his drinking companion. "Varric didn't tell you?"

Carver probably imagined the instant of shock in the pirate's eyes, because after an eyeblink she looked as cocky and unruffled as always. "He said he needed a shave and some  _alone time_  with Bianca," she explained. "So do you. Need a shave, that is."

The warrior's cheek burned beneath her fingertip as it traced down to his jaw, which held its own smattering of blonde-and-black fuzz. "That all you have to say?" He swiveled a bit too quickly, and was reduced to gripping the bar to keep himself on his stool. "After you...took her? To bed?"

That put a hint of a flush into the pirate's cheeks...or it might have been the next drink she stole from him. Or from Varric. "That's none of your business," Isabela sing-songed. "You said she may be dead, anyway. That means she might be alive."

 _If you can call it a life_ , he would've said, but his tongue stumbled over the words. "Why'd you...touch her?" He asked instead, unsure what made him want to know. Unsure whether he really did.

"Because she's pretty," the pirate offered, shrugging. "And she wanted me to." Her fingers snatched up the glass when Carver reached for it, and after she swallowed it, Isabela replaced it bottoms-up on the bar. "She has this  _wicked_  trick with her fingers-"

"Ew," the warrior cut in. "I...really don't need to hear that."

The pirate cocked a brow at him. "Then why'd you ask,  _Junior_?" The way she drawled Varric's nickname for him made Carver want to slap her, but even in his state, he knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself afterward...if Isabela let him live at all.

He grimaced. "I just...never thought...I'm her brother, alright?" His eyes felt a touch too heavy, and they slid down over the pirate's chin to her throat before he caught himself. "I never thought of her like that."

"That's a relief," Isabela said thickly. "What would Leandra say if you did?" Carver didn't think he could blush anymore, not after the Red Iron, but the Rivaini proved him wrong. "Oh, that's  _adorable_ ," she cooed, tilting her head to one side. "You two really are twins! I could get Beth to look that same way," the pirate boasted.

Impulse drove Carver forward, the sudden urge to kiss her overwhelming him. Instead Isabela moved with breathtaking quickness and surprising precision, and the warrior found his face planted-not entirely ungently-against the bar, with his right arm pinioned high behind his back. "You're drunk," the pirate whispered, her breath tickling his earlobe. "I wouldn't want to take advantage."

Carver didn't struggle, but he didn't believe her, either . "Not too good for my sister," he mumbled against the countertop. "But too good for me?"

"Something like that," Isabela replied. "Go find somewhere to sleep. I hear they're building a treehouse in that great big oak in the Alienage." And then she left him, strutting back up to her room or to the tavern's back door, her steps as sure as if she hadn't sipped a drop of Varric's whiskey.

Somewhere in the swirl of Carver's liquor-soaked mind, he understood that the pirate had suggested-in her own way-that he visit Merrill. He should, he knew...the elf probably didn't know he'd got back. Probably didn't know if he was alive. But when he tried to think of the Dalish mage's face, a completely different elf came to him. She had skin the same dusty caramel as Isabela, but her raven hair curled down to her shoulders, and her blood-coloured eyes glowed in his memory.

He'd last seen Athadra at Ostagar, after a lifetime. In many ways, it seemed a lifetime had passed since that chance meeting. The warrior's thoughts returned to that far-distant battlefield and his reasons for joining it...then his reasons for quitting it, and his regrets at what his stubbornness had cost his family. Carver still didn't feel like he deserved the name 'Hawke', that more and more people were starting to associate him with. He'd learnt so much from Tobrius, but the most important lesson was that he hadn't known his father at all.

Ca rver knew he didn't deserve the legend that Varric was trying to build for him, but he also knew who did.

Slowly, unsteadily, the warrior made it to his feet. He was halfway to the stairwell up to the dwarf's room when he stumbled into Norah again; he would've fallen, but the woman pivoted them both into a spin, and somehow his feet caught up with them before he dragged her down to the floor. Another cheer went up around them, though, and suddenly the floorboards creaked as patrons pushed tables and chairs out of the way.

Music began not long after, though Carver couldn't identify its source, and before he knew it he and Norah were swinging 'round and 'round, along with a half-dozen other pairs. The warrior's head spun, his stomach roiling; if there'd been anything in it, he would've painted the floor green by now. The heat of the impromptu dance was nearly too much for him, and he tore himself away from the barmaid, only to find his hands taken up by another lass even younger than him. Frustration and nausea warred with the numbing, muted half-joy Carver got from drinking. At some point, he found himself dry-heaving on the stairs, and took the opportunity to crawl up them on all fours.

Varric was long in answering his knock. When the dwarf did so, he was dressed only in linen short-breeches, and he didn't look at all pleased to see Carver. "It's late, Junior," the dwarf rumbled. "You're drunk."

"I know," the warrior admitted. "Can I...come in? Please?"

The dwarf considered for a long moment, but finally relented. Once Carver had shut the door behind him, Varric grimaced at the fireplace; heaped inside were the ashes that had once been his duster, trousers, and boots. Bianca sat on the roundtable beside a bucket of water and a pile of soapcakes. "Make it fast, Junior. I've got a crossbow to clean, trinkets to sell, and a brother to track down."

"And a story to tell," Carver ventured.

Varric pulled up a chair and sat down. "I've been known to relay certain events to certain people from time to time," he admitted. "But I haven't even started thinking about what I'm going to do with this sodding fuck-up of an expedition."

Carver woozed, but kept himself upright by gripping the wall. "I...I've got an idea," he began, and then raised his free hand. "Hear me out, dwarf."

Varric hesitated, licking his lips. "I'm listening, Junior."

"Let me tell you...about my sister," the warrior slurred.

"Sunshine?" The dwarf grunted. "What should I know about her that she never told me?"

Carver shook his head. "No," he corrected, swallowing bile. "My other sister. Cethlenn. She's...she'd have..." He heaved a sigh. "She was more of a Hawke than I'll ever be," t he warrior insisted. "You should make her the Hawke. Let me...let me be dead."

Varric's face twisted, his mouth falling open somewhere between incredulity and amusement, but after a heartbeat his expression settled. "Hmm," he grunted. "You know, there could be some benefit in that idea, Junior." He shook his head. "It won't be easy..."

The warrior's legs finally gave out, and he slid against the door until they didn't have to support his weight anymore. "But you can do it? Make...people believe it?"

"It'll certainly be a challenge," the dwarf admitted, but he got a certain gleam in his eye. "Just...tell me what I ought to know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to clafount, from fanfiction.net, for beta-reading this story!


	23. Kinship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany finds her new family, along with an old friend.

 

The horses were in something of a lather, so the two Grey Wardens dismounted about a league West of Redcliffe, and they walked for much of the hour in silence. Athadra supposed she should've taken a ship across Lake Calenhad, so that the people of the village could exclaim joy at their Champion's return, but half a year spent with foreign Wardens had lessened the woman's patience for adulation considerably. She had brought another Warden with her, a big Ander warrior called Jarvik. His pale gold hair and ice-coloured eyes marked him as an outsider in Ferelden, but his status as a companion of the Warden-Commander had muted the hostility he might have been expected to receive in the odd tavern they'd overnighted in during their journey through the newly-drawn Teyrnir of Redcliffe.

The man whistled at the sight of Lake Calenhad. " _Ehrlich, ein See ohne Ende_ ," he marveled, lapsing into Andish with his Commander.

" _Der Vulkansee_   _ist groesser_ ," Athadra replied in kind, referencing the uncharted ocean which delimited the Western border of the Anderfels. " _Aber nicht so schoen_." She looked out over the deep blue waters, and as her eyes sought the Northern horizon, Athadra's expression darkened. " _Ausser fuer den Turm_ ," she admitted. Then the woman levered herself back onto her horse and smirked at Jarvik, pleased to have his head beneath her shoulder, at least for the moment. " _Weiter_ ," she commanded, pushing her destrier into a trot.

A few minutes later they had crossed the small bridge over the waterfall which powered much of the village's industry, and were halfway across the much grander bridge which connected Redcliffe Castle to the mainland. The guards had already raised the alarm, however, so that when Athadra's horse carried her beneath her castle's portcullis, the seneschal was standing by to receive her. "You are truly a sight, Champion," the man enthused, sweeping off his cap and bending into a low bow.

"I'll bet I am, Devers," the elf replied, her words coloured by her Dalish roots and the long months of speaking an alien tongue. "I'll need a bath in my chambers, and Jarvik will need a room and a bath prepared, as well." Both of them wore heavy plate patterned with the blue griffon emblems of their order, though the steel was grimed with layers of darkspawn guts and dust from the road. "I'll also need a verbal report from Oghren. Stroud, too, if he's here."

The civilian lifted from his bow. "At once, Champion. Senior Warden Stroud returned not four days ago, with two new recruits from the Free Marches." Devers gestured across the courtyard.

Athadra saw la Mainerouge and Friga standing off against two unfamiliar faces, paired by their talents. She nodded approvingly at the showing of the dual-hatchet-wielding elf, but then her crimson eyes caught on the human mage. Friga seemed to be having quite a workout, dodging and blocking the strange woman's ice and fire spells...though the longer Athadra lingered within the portcullis, the more familiar the mage recruit's mana seemed. "Devers," she barked, just as the man moved to obey her earlier commands. "Have the new girls ready for inspection out here when my briefs are finished."

The seneschal reiterated his obeisance and stalked off to effect the Champion's orders, while Athadra and Jarvik dismounted and let a young stablehand take their mounts. "Devers will show you to your room," she informed the Ander Warden, and then she marched directly across the courtyard toward the castle's entrance hall. Mana flickered strangely, just as a cry of surprise tickled Athadra's good ear, and she glanced over her shoulder to see that the new mage had been knocked back flat on her arse. The Champion blinked when a snarl caught her attention, the sight of a mabari standing protectively over the woman sending chills down the elf's spine. Shaking her head, Athadra stalked into the entrance and through other familiar halls of her castle, all the way up to her quarters.

It wasn't Athadra's castle, technically, at least not yet. Eamon Guerrin was the Teyrn of Redcliffe, so made when they'd elevated his humble arling in an act which realigned Ferelden's political landscape to better-match the new realities created by the Fifth Blight and the concurrent civil war. Teyrn Eamon, in turn, had willed that upon his death or incapacity, the teyrnir was to pass to Ferelden's Grey Wardens. But Eamon was in Denerim, advising Alistair Theirin, the bastard-boy-turned-Grey-Warden who had fought by Athadra's side to end the Blight. Through fire and blood, Athadra and Alistair had saved their country from the Archdemon and the traitorous Teyrn Loghain. In return Alistair got a crown; Athadra would get her castle.

The tub was already filled and steaming when the Champion arrived in her quarters, which comprised a modest room on the castle's second floor, nearly as far away from the master bedroom as it was possible to be. Athadra stripped herself of her swords, boots, greaves, gauntlets, chestpiece, and underpadding...everything she wore, save a single pewter ring which never left the third finger of her right hand. She'd only had it stripped from her once in the nearly two years since she'd first donned it, and a great many people had died at her hand for that error.

Athadra sank into the water, hissing pleasantly at its heat. When a servant came to collect her fouled arms and armour, she bade him leave the belt, which held a longsword at each side and a pair of daggers crossed at the back. Not long after, just as she'd worked a good lather into her coal-black hair, a couple of firm knocks sounded against her door.

A muffled belch announced Oghren's presence as clearly as his question. "You decent in there, Commander? Got tree-top here with me."

"When were I ever decent?" Athadra shot back. "Come in, both of you." Neither Warden seemed at all perturbed to find their Commander washing herself in a bath, but Oghren did shut the door behind him. The dwarf's beard was just as long and red as Athadra remembered. "How's the pebble?"

Oghren barked a laugh. "Crawlin' around the village like he owns the place. Felsi'll sure be glad now that you're back here, so's I can pop down to keep an eye on him, time to time."

The Commander inclined her head. "You're still acting in my stead until you give your report," she reminded the dwarf, before sliding beneath the water for a few moments.

When Athadra emerged, Oghren nodded. "Been pretty quiet since we tied up business with the last of the Mother's army up outside Highever. Fergus got a bit testy when we had to torch one of his towns, though." The dwarf couldn't quite meet the elf's eyes as he said that last bit, but she gestured for him to continue, nevertheless. " You heard what happened with Sparkle-fingers. I...didn't figure it'd be good to bring anyone new in for awhile, after that."

Athadra chuckled. "Good, but we'll have to start recruiting again, soon. The templars tried to sneak in last time...next time, they might not be so cloak-and-dagger about it." She shook her head. "Is there anything else?"

"Steward says that finances are in pretty bad shape still, from what all went on during the Blight," the dwarf informed her. "That should change now that we're gettin' some scutage, but there's lots of country still smoking, Commander."

The elf took a breath, wondering just how closely to watch the seneschal. A light touch had proved her undoing in Amaranthine, after all, but circumstances were radically different in Redcliffe-both the village and the wider swathe of Ferelden that the term now encompassed. But the Commander had more important issues at heart than petty nobles or suffering peasants. "What of Avernus and the Architect?"

Oghren tugged at one of his beard-braids, clearly uncomfortable. "Nate handled two exchanges with that damned upjumped darkspawn," he admitted. "Commander, you know how I feel about-"

"I do," Athadra broke in, but she also knew that Oghren wouldn't have countermanded her orders to supply the Architect with some Warden blood from time to time. "And Avernus?"

"Old man came by here once, lookin' sprightlier," the dwarf informed her. "I sent 'im out with Friga and Sigrun to catch some more darkspawn to drag back to Soldier's Peak." His tone held a clear note of distaste for that as well, but it wasn't nearly as marked as it would've been if he'd known that Friga had likely given the old archmage some of her own blood as well.

"That'll be all, Warden," Athadra allowed. "Go and see that wife of yours tonight, after the fun's over. Dismissed."

Oghren nodded, clapping a fist to his breastplate and retreating from the room. Stroud still loomed, though he hadn't yet made a sound. The man didn't even twitch when Athadra rose from her tub and blasted herself dry with her mana. The elf strode over to her wardrobe, unmindful of the scars that her duty had blessed her with. "Did you have success in the Free Marches?"

Stroud's eyes did not waver from the room's fireplace. "We acquired a recruit of some skill from the Alienage of Kirkwall, and in that city we recovered notes from Senior Warden Avernus which had been lost to bandits; these we sent on to Weisshaupt, Commander."

The woman's grunt held a note of approval. "Good man," she commended him . "Once you ventured below ground, did you find what the Architect informed us of?"

"Hints, Commander, " the Orlesian Warden replied. "But there were..complications, along the way."

Athadra laced up a pair of breeches and tied a strip of cloth about her chest. "What manner of  _complications_ , Stroud?" She demanded when she'd turned to face the large man, her eyes narrowing. If the Architect was already betraying her, then her plans might have to move forward more quickly than she'd anticipated.

"Anders," he growled, his moustache furrowing with the strength of his grimace. "His presence along with myself, Monroi, and our elven recruit attracted far too many darkspawn to make our mission a success, Commander."

The woman's blood whispered with a different kind of suspicion. "Do you know why the bastard were down there, so close by?"

Stroud's grimace settled into an annoyed frown. "He headed a party of civilians, though we did not discuss his reason. I suspect it was some sort of excursion into the Deeps to recover lost dwarven treasure."

Athadra nodded. "There were similar stirrings in Hossberg and Nordbotten; folk taking advantage of the Deeps' getting cleared out by the Blight."

"Indeed, Commander," the man affirmed. "Whatever the reason, however, Anders sought us out...in order to save one of his companions, who was in the process of succumbing to the taint."

"And you took her?" The elf crossed the floor to snatch up her swordbelt. "The dog, too?" A shadow flickered over her features as she remembered her own mabari; she'd called him Garahel, after the elf who'd ended the Fourth Blight, four centuries before. Like his namesake, though, the loyal hound had fallen in the fight against the Archdemon. The Commander hadn't been able to contemplate replacing him, more than a year later.

Stroud would have known that, though she'd never spoken of it to him. "I would have killed it, had she not survived the Joining. But Anders spoke highly of her skill, and he was not wrong in that, Commander."

"We'll find out, soon enough," Athadra pointed out. "Which route brought you back?"

The larger Warden's frown finally dampened. "Old passages beneath the Waking Sea, and thence to Orzammar." His eyes shifted to the elf's face before he bowed his head. "I take full responsibility for the failure of the mission, Commander."

"Noted," she told him evenly, and moved to fetch the whetstone she kept on her bedside table. "Is there aught else?"

The man hesitated by the door. "There was...another matter," he ventured. When the Commander's eyes lit upon him, Stroud heaved a sigh. "Anders claimed that you would know the mage, Commander."

A heartbeat passed before Athadra re-sheathed her half-drawn sword. "Did he, now?" She searched her memory, trying to recollect the recruit's face; perhaps she'd been in the Circle, and had managed to flee to the Free Marches before Uldred's folly? The signature of the woman's mana taunted the Commander with its elusive familiarity . "Who is she?"

"Her name was Hawke," Stroud informed the elf. "Bethany Hawke."

Athadra's mouth felt like a desert; if she hadn't already been sitting on her bed, she'd surely have fallen. "By the Void," she finally managed, shaking her head. "I just might know her, after all." What might such a coincidence mean? It was nearly enough to make the Commander reconsider her utter lack of faith.

Stroud remained rooted to his spot, though his expression betrayed nothing of surprise. "You still intend to exercise both of them, Commander?"

"I think so," Athadra breathed, her lips curling into a grin. "Gather everyone on the courtyard's steps."

* * *

Nerves threatened to get the better of Bethany as she stood in Redcliffe's courtyard beside the other recruit. She still couldn't believe that the heavily-armoured elf she'd glimpsed so briefly was the very same as the girl from her childhood. Bethany's heart had skipped a beat when she'd caught sight of the corner of the elf's eye, and that had been enough advantage for Friga to knock her backward.

Friga and la Mainerouge had both disappeared at a few whispered words from the seneschal, but they'd given Bethany and Faenathiel strict instructions to remain. For about half an hour they'd stood alone, but now it seemed like every single Grey Warden in Ferelden stood at the top of Redcliffe Castle's stairs, observing the two newest additions to their ranks. There was Acting-Commander Oghren, Nathaniel, Friga, Stroud, la Mainerouge, the dwarf woman Sigrun, and even the strange Warden that had come in with the elf that Bethany could only assume was Warden-Commander Athadra.

Suddenly a space opened up between Friga and Stroud, but it was filled almost instantly by a half-naked elf. Bethany gasped when she got a better look; the elf's crimson eyes, dark hair, and caramel-coloured skin loomed in the recruit's memory...but they were the only things familiar about Athadra. The Commander's right cheek was creased in a scar, and her right ear did not jut from beneath her hair, as the left did-judging by the texture of flesh on that side of her neck, it might have been burnt back. Athadra's torso bore witness to more carnage, sporting a diagonal gash from her left collarbone to the underside of her right breast, along with a spider's web of trophies from countless battles. A narrow strip of linen as the elf's only concession to modesty; even the brush of her mana was unrecognisable .

Bethany thought that the elf should've seemed smaller, now that she no longer wore heavy plate over her frame, but Athadra's flesh rippled with muscle as she descended the stairs, and the human mage fought the urge to take a step back. "It's good to see you, Beth," the Commander intoned when she drew near, though her expression held no note of welcome. "Even if I'd rather not have you under my command."

That voice was far too graveled to belong to Athadra, far too pitiless and cruel. Bethany recalled Anders' advice, though, and she tried to keep the worry from her own voice when she answered. "Carver worried about you, Athadra."

The air atop the stairs shifted as half of the observers drew in a breath, and a flash in the elf's blood-coloured eyes sent a stab of fear into Bethany's gut. "Commander," Athadra corrected, almost gently...though the recruit got the impression that she wouldn't offer the correction a second time. The elf's eyes caught on the distinctive staff that Bethany's father had wielded when last they'd known one another. "Is Ceth still alive?" She must have noticed the spasm of grief across Bethany's features, for before the woman could answer, she shook her head. "Shame."

Then the Commander widened her stance, crossing her arms before her and drawing the two longswords she wore on a belt over her simple trousers. "You're both here," she told them, "because you've been touted to have some ability. You may have impressed Stroud enough to give you the cup, but you've yet to impress me." Without warning the Commander surged forward, twisting her blades in a narrow arc before she reversed her grip on them and stabbed them into the ground.

It was only a heartbeat later that Bethany felt the heat of her own blood on her chin, and then the sting of the cut. To her right, Faenathiel voiced a curse which said that she'd been similarly nicked. The elf mage had moved so quickly that the recruits hadn't had time even to jump backward. "You may still have mothers or fathers," the Commander continued in that same tone, as she casually reached behind her back to untie the cloth about her breasts. "Brothers or sisters who would count you as their kin." The elf brought the strip of fabric up to her face. "You may yet see them," she breathed, as she secured the cloth over her eyes, cinching it tightly. "But they are no longer your family. It ain't their blood in your veins, anymore." The elf knelt between her planted swords, curling her fingers slowly about their hilts. "The Wardens are your kin. We are your blood. And to prove your place among us, you must shed mine...or die in the attempt."

Nothing Bethany had seen of the Grey Wardens so far gave her any cause to doubt the Commander's sincerity. When the nearly-naked elf rose in a rush, yanking her weapons free from the half-frozen earth, Bethany dare not question the other woman's ability, either; instinct took hold of the human mage, and she could not picture the happy elven child she'd known so briefly, so many years before-after Bethany's staff moved to block the Commander's first blow just in time, the recruit could only see her as an enemy to be defeated...or, at least, to be survived.

For every spark that flew from the steel sleeve of Bethany's staff making contact with the Commander's right-hand blade, four more were birthed by Faenathiel's parries of her left. Already the mundane elf had tried skirting around behind the mage to chop at her bare back, but the Commander spun with such force that both of the recruits had to retreat from her flashing steel. As she did so, Bethany spied ten deep crevices which criss-crossed the Commander's back, more pronounced than any other legacy yet visible.

Barcus suddenly snarled and tried to overwhelm the Commander; he'd been well-trained in his time at the Red Iron, to recognise when his mistress was sparring versus when she was fighting for her life, and the sheer ferocity of the elven mage's attacks seemed to convince the hound of Bethany's danger.

The Commander stubbornly held her ground, blindfolded and outnumbered as she was, and her swords moved too quickly for any of her assailants to close in. Bethany's hands were numb from the shock of taking so many direct blows to her staff. Every step she took was matched by the Commander, whose assault never let up, never let Bethany have even a yard of space or a moment of peace to cast a single spell. "Are you not a mage?" The elf taunted, her voice previously-cold voice thick with the heat of battle. "Stop dancing, and  _kill me_!"

Fear and anger mingled within the human mage, clearing her mind for a single heartbeat-long enough to aim a freezing spell at the half-mad elf. It was stronger than Bethany had meant it to be, driven by her surprise and terror, and for a single instant Bethany feared that she'd fulfilled the Commander's demand. But the moment passed, and the elven mage shook off the frost with hardly a beat missed, too fast for either Bethany or Faenathiel to exploit...though just a hair slow enough for Barcus to take advantage.

The mabari's jaws fastened over the elf's thigh in a move Bethany had witnessed half a hundred times; the dog would grip tight and yank, severing vital arteries that would prove fatal if not healed nearly immediately. Some dim memory of her fondness for the girl Athadra had been cut through Bethany's adrenaline, and she hesitated, preparing to call Barcus off and heal her one-time friend. Yet just as the hound's teeth found the Commander's flesh, one of her sword-hilts came down over the back of his head, hard enough to daze the beast. She kicked Barcus forcefully away and cast a powerful barrier around him. "Good dog," the Commander gruffed in the moment of the recruits' distraction, and when she straightened Bethany caught sight of a few beads of red across the front of her right thigh.

The mundane elf jumped into action. "Die!" Faenathiel moved like a gusty autumn wind, feinting and rolling unpredictably, lashing out with her twin hatchets, her elbows, her knees. But despite the Commander's blindfold and ruined right ear, the elven mage met the rogue blow-for-blow, leaping and parrying and cursing as colourfully as Bethany had ever heard in all of her missions back with the defunct mercenary company in Kirkwall. "Little help here, Shem?" Faenathiel called a couple of seconds later, and Bethany jolted, embarrassed that she'd been captivated by the sight.

Blinking, Bethany focused her mana through her father's staff, sending bolts of spirit energy across the small gap that now separated her from the Commander. The elven mage absorbed the blows willingly and even increased the distance as she drove Faenathiel back, seemingly intent on delimbing the rogue at the very least. With a hammering heart, the human woman tried to freeze the Commander once more; she shrugged the spell off with apparent ease, but a well-aimed swing from the rogue opened up a graze across the elven mage's left shoulder. In the blink of an eye, however, Faenathiel's hatchets spun away from her grasp and the Commander's swords were crossed at the rogue's collarbones. "Good girl," the Commander growled. "Now go stand with the others."

The mundane elf didn't bother retrieving her weapons in her haste to get away. The Commander straightened and turned to face the remaining recruit. Bethany saw the single tear of blood halt in its trickle down the elf's arm, and she couldn't believe her eyes when the wound opened wider, bearing forth a crimson mist which swirled around the Commander as she slowly advanced across the yard. Bethany's feet carried her backward seemingly of their own accord, a whole new terror spreading through her chest. "You...you're a blood mage?"

"I'm a mage," the Commander retorted. "I know a bit of old magic, and it has served me well." No matter how quickly Bethany scrambled away, the elf's bare feet maintained their deliberate pace. "As it will serve you."

"No," Bethany vowed, though her voice shook. Her back brushed up against the castle's lowered gate, and she was overcome with the urge to flee. She'd seen blood magic before, of course; Kirkwall seemed to breed the illicit mages like maggots on a corpse. But the woman had spent her life breathing in the horrible stories of blood mages as told by the Chantry, tales of mind domination and ritual sacrifice in the Tevinter Imperium, of Andraste's great struggle to rid the world of that injustice once and for all. "I'll not give myself to a demon!"

The Commander snorted. "I'll teach you meself, Beth," she breathed, just loudly enough for the human mage to hear over the ever-shrinking distance between them. "I've already started, in fact." The elf made a sharp gesture, swords still gripped in her hands, and Bethany felt an invisible knife shoving up into her gut. It sucked away nearly every glimmer of her mana in the space of a breath, as devastating as any templar attack. The recruit sagged back against the iron grate of the portcullis, her heart racing away in her chest. "You'll find it hard to slow me now," the Commander observed, smirking. "Unless you listen to the blood."

Bethany sucked in a breath, her eyes half-lidded. "I...won't," she protested, even as she realised the futility of it.

"Then you will die," the Commander observed, her voice coldly neutral once more.

Sheer desperation gave life to Bethany's limbs as the elf lashed out, and the human woman managed to parry two blows with the battered steel sleeve of her staff. The Commander grimaced, evidently surprised by the recruit's resolve, but she caught a tentative counterstrike with her left-hand blade and struck out with her right; the sharp edge of the elf's sword struck a millimetre below the staff's protective sleeve and sheared through the wood as though it were nothing but naked flesh.

The tip of the blade just barely kissed Bethany's chin again, tearing open the scab that had formed since her skin had first been rent there. The human mage closed her eyes, hardly able to contain a sob, certain that the elven girl she'd cared so much for was about to cut her down where she stood. Time seemed to slow, however, and Bethany's mind tingled with an odd whisper. It terrified her at first; the girl was certain that it was a demon, attracted by her desire to live or her stubborn pride, prepared to offer her the means of survival in exchange for a window into the mortal world. But the whisper resolved more sharply, and the mage realised that it was already in her blood.

_Not just your blood_ , came a thought that wasn't hers.  _You've got mine in you, too. Can't you sense it?_

Bethany's eyes fluttered open, the sound of two hearts filling her ears...her own, pounding madly against her ribs, and one more distant, that beat with much greater strength and clarity. And then, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, Bethany raised her free hand to the elven mage. The cloud of blood stopped whorling around the Commander. Droplet by droplet, the lifeblood collected itself in front of Bethany's face, drawing into her reopened wound, causing her veins to thrum with sickening pleasure. Once the last drop had disappeared, her chin knitted itself of its own accord, so that no sign remained that it had ever wept crimson.

"Welcome home, Beth," the Commander sighed, her lips coming very close to a smile. "We'll have Mikhael see to re-fitting Malcolm's staff for you." She re-sheathed her swords and undid the impromptu blindfold before turning to cross the courtyard, leaving Bethany alone, trembling, struck by awe and revulsion at what arts the need to survive had prompted her to employ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my beta-reader, clafount at ff.net; also thanks to my reviewer here, wtgw!


	24. Party Favours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver has to settle into the life of wealth and privilege that he never really wanted, but at least he has his friends to keep him grounded.

 

Hightown was, quite literally, the pinnacle of Kirkwall-built at the very top of the cliffs out of which the entire city had been carved by the Tevinters, eons past. From atop the Chantry, there was a commanding view not only of the city itself, but also of the Vimmark Mountains to the North, the Gallows across the harbour, and the various islands dotting the Waking Sea to the South. Carver stared across that ocean from his perch, recalling the first and last time he'd crossed it, over two years before. He wondered whether Bethany had re-crossed it...if, even now, she was adjusting to a whole new life as a Grey Warden in Ferelden.

It should have been him. He was a warrior by trade and by temperament, while his sister had been forged into a fighter only reluctantly. She'd often day-dreamed of living in Hightown, of engaging in fancy gatherings in nobles' estates or even the Viscount's Keep, while his idea of a good time involved killing highwaymen and bragging about it over drinks with Varric and Isabela...not that he'd been able to engage in either activity overmuch in the last few weeks, since he'd come back from that damned expedition.

A boot's scrape brought Carver from his reverie so quickly that he'd spun around and half-drawn his sword-his hardly-bloodied sword-before he realised that his uninvited guest was the lay-brother from Starkhaven whose family he'd helped to avenge. "I apologise for intruding," the man said, though his little smile held no remorse that Carver could detect. "I just noticed that you looked troubled on your way up here, and haven't come down for hours. Would you like a sympathetic ear?"

"No," Carver rebuffed the near-stranger, racking his memory for the man's name. "I came up here to be alone, Serah...Vael."

"Please," the lay-brother replied. "Call me Sebastian."

Carver's brows knitted. "I'd rather not," he admitted. "We aren't exactly friends."

Sebastian's smile only widened. "Ahh, but we might be. You have done me a great service in the past. I was only wondering if I might try to return the favour to you."

The warrior turned away, scanning the uneven rooftops of Hightown, his eyes slitting against the setting of the sun. "You already paid me, serah," he pointed out. "Unless you have anyone else for me to kill, I think our business is done."

"Are you truly so desperate for coin that you would countenance murder?" The lay-brother occupied a spot on the wall not too far away, clearly too stubborn to take a bloody hint. "I had heard that you'd recently come into some good fortunes."

Carver grunted. "Not as good as everyone seems to think." He didn't bother pressing the other man's point about murder-the lay-brother had considered vengeance an acceptable motive over Grand Cleric Elthina's objections, so he couldn't very well consider himself a paragon of virtue...without being a hypocrite, at any rate. But, since he wouldn't go away, the warrior didn't see the harm in correcting his misapprehension. "I lost my sister in the Deep Roads. Probably forever."

A heartbeat passed. "From what I recall of her during our two brief meetings, I think she was a fine woman; surely she has a place at the Maker's side," Sebastian insisted. "So you can rest assured that you will see her again, if you live righteously enough."

The warrior's lips parted to give the bastard an earful of what Carver thought of the Maker for taking Bethany away from him-after Cethlenn and their father beforehand-when a husky chuckle sounded in his ears. Soft leather whispered over stone as a third interloper approached. "I think Junior's going to take a lot of repenting before he can be certain of that," Isabela observed. "He's been a very naughty boy."

The lay-brother's cheeks did not colour, even though Carver's face heated. Indeed, Sebastian hardly seemed flapped at all by the scantily-clad pirate's unexpected appearance. "It is true that many strive and fall short," he answered. "But the Maker takes note of our sincere faith, and rewards us with a place at His side in the hereafter."

"But sometimes," the pirate interjected, swaying ever-closer to the two men, "when people sin very badly...they have to make a more impressive show of contrition, right?"

Sebastian's brow cocked, but he slowly dipped his head. "I...suppose," he conceded, keeping his eyes on a level with Isabela's. "If one's heart is stained with past misdeeds, a cleansing action can purify it in the Maker's sight."

The pirate looked to continue on, but Carver found the Chantry's roof a bit too small for the three of them. "What are you doing here, Isabela?"

The woman's face fell for a second, but she pointed to Sebastian. "If I convince him to flog you, I win!"

Carver merely rolled his eyes, but Sebastian finally looked scandalised. "Maker's breath, harlot!" The man shook his head and glanced to the warrior. "If you ever have need of counsel, you obviously know where the Chantry is, brother. I will pray for your soul-and that of your sister."

"I'm not your sodding brother," Carver mumbled under his breath, but the self-righteous bastard was already melting away, faster than the fading light of evening. Isabela lingered, but he turned away from her, letting the last rays of the sun sting his eyes again. "What  _do_  you want, then?"

A long, half-contented sigh was the pirate's response for a moment. "Sorry," Isabela spoke up. "I was just thinking about how lay-people in the Chantry are so poorly named...since that's one thing most of them swear they'll never do."

The warrior growled. "Don't need that image in my head, Rivaini," he shot back, giving her a taste of her own medicine for using Varric's nickname a few minutes before. "Why is it always sex with you, anyway?"

"It's not," the pirate pointed out. "Sometimes it's about sex with other people. Occasionally, those other people are even named Hawke."

"I still haven't bloodied my sword," Carver warned her. "Yet."

Isabela chuckled. "That's very similar to what Bethany told me, too, but I fixed that quickly enough. " She burst out laughing at the horror and revulsion that Carver's face reflected, but before he could do more than mouth incoherently at her, she rolled her eyes. "Varric's got me chasing you down because you'll miss the party. He should really start paying me finder's fees for all the friend-fetching I do for him."

The warrior shrugged. "You can take the sodding lay-brother if you want to. I'm not interested in seeing a bunch of cheese-eating Orlesian dandies fawning over how rich they are in my mother's old mansion."

"But if you don't show up, your mother will worry," the pirate pointed out. "And she might feel pressure from the other guests to throw out the  _Lowtown riff-raff_...and Bodahn might listen to her. And then-"

"Then you wouldn't get to cut a few purses and quaff a few bottles' worth of wine?" Carver ventured, throwing the woman a smirk.

The Rivaini pirate grinned. " _Exactly_!" She lay a hand on his shoulder and tugged. "Now come on, you. We've got some landed gentry to take advantage of...and it's been too long since I've been able to properly take what's not mine by rights from people who deserve a good plundering."

Carver heaved a sigh, but let himself be led from the Chantry's roof. As they made their way through the building, he thought it fitting that he'd been inside it more often with deadly intent than to pray for his own soul. The streets of Hightown were much more direct and level than Lowtown; the late-Harvestmere snows were hardly an impediment, and it wasn't too long before the warrior and the rogue approached the garden-fronted manse with the recessed door. A pair of guards stood at attention at the mouth of the short walkway from the avenue.

Isabela clicked her tongue. "Looks like our Big Girl's already here," she observed, though her expression hardened when one of the helmed men seemed to take interest in her. "Eyes front, you silver crab," she snapped, brushing past and into the estate without a backward glance. The warrior chuckled at the guard's consternation, but he wasn't long in joining the pirate. She hesitated in the anteroom as Carver moved to hang up his untested weapon. "I...have a favour to ask," Isabela broached. "Or, rather, I've already asked it and I just wanted to warn you."

The warrior cocked a brow at her. "As long as it doesn't have to do with you talking about my sister again, I'll hear it."

"As it happens..." Isabela grinned when his mouth fell open, but she quickly pushed on. "Leandra busied herself with picking out dresses for Bethany while you all were...away," the pirate explained. "And now that you've gotten some money, she's bought a few of them, just in case."

Carver's face darkened. "And you want to borrow one," he stated.

"Just for the night," the rogue assured him. "It'll make it easier to blend in!" She gestured at her outfit, from her thigh-high boots to the bodice she wore. "This is fine for the deck of a ship, but I'll need some camouflage to swim in these shark-infested waters."

The warrior heaved a long sigh. "If Mother's already said okay, there's nothing for me to do. Just...try not to ruin it," he warned her. "And give me a cut."

Isabela shrugged. "If I did that, our favourite little Dalesdottir might think you've lost faith in her," she said a bit too lightly, though there was understanding in her gaze that Carver wasn't entirely sure he liked.

"What did she tell you, while I was gone?" Nerves unsettled his stomach; he hadn't spoken more than a few words to Merrill since returning from the expedition, and he certainly hadn't resumed their semi-regular evenings of working with blood together. Partly it was out of a sense of futility-now that Varric was setting him up for life, Carver didn't expect to need those kinds of skills just to stay alive-but he was also ashamed that all of his practice hadn't been enough to save Bethany. If he were honest with himself, Carver would have to admit that he was also a bit afraid...perhaps Isabela's comment about his sins hadn't been borne entirely of mischief? What if she knew just how dangerously he'd toyed with one of the core tenets of the Chantry? Would she even care?

The pirate's grin was absolutely wicked. "Kitten never said anything about what you got up to," she admitted. "But if you were rutting her I doubt she'd have been able to keep that from me." Isabela turned, but just before she crossed the threshold into the estate's main room, she glanced over her shoulder. "She'll be here soon, if you want to fix that."

With that, the pirate was gone, stalking through the estate as though she owned the place. She'd already made her mark on one of the bannisters between the purging of the slavers and the formal acknowledgement of the Hawkes' rights by the viscount, after all. Carver shook his head and strode into the room, only to be ambushed by the dwarf, Bodahn Feddic.

"Welcome home, messere!" Bodahn effused, looking splendid in dwarven stewards' livery. "The celebrations will begin in about an hour. Is there anything I or my boy can do for you until then?"

Carver looked from the elder dwarf to the younger. "No," he answered, still amazed that they'd managed to make it out of the Deep Roads. Evidently, Bartrand had betrayed them halfway up from the primeval thaig, and Bodahn had spoken of finding corpses of some of the casteless dwarven excavators along the way up.

The elder dwarf bowed nearly low enough to tickle his knees with his beard. "Well, if there is anything I can do to please, I hope you'll let me know. In the meantime, I'd like to reiterate my gratitude that you found my boy when he'd got lost." He turned to his adopted son and gestured. "Say 'thank you' to the nice man, Sandal. Go on."

The simpleton dwarf's face went from mild amusement to gravely serious. "Thank you, kind ser," Sandal intoned monosyllabically. Carver remembered the sight of the ogre, then, frozen solid in mid-charge not a dozen paces from the boy. It was still enough to make him shudder.

The warrior shook his head. "Just...try not to burn the whole sodding place down with one of those flaming rocks of yours, alright?" He glanced at the Satinalia decorations festooning the walls and banisters, all likely hung by Bodahn himself. With the younger dwarf's solemn vow, Carver made his way past them and up the staircase to the mansion's second floor, which contained four bedrooms.

Only two stood occupied now, though. He headed for the one he'd claimed, but the door nearest the stairs opened before he could brush past. "Oh, my baby," Leandra sighed. "I thought you'd gotten lost!"

Carver tried to school his expression as he regarded his mother, unused to seeing her with proper cosmetics and fancy pins in her hair...not to mention the delicate blue dress the woman wore, so different from the roughspun shifts and skirts she'd spent his entire life donning. "I really wish I could have," he grudged. "But Hightown's just too easy to walk around."

"Just keep out of trouble," the woman admonished him. "And  _do_  go change...the de Launcets are bringing their daughters." Carver rolled his eyes, but his mother's face set. "Don't look at me like that, darling. You could stand to make a few acquaintances!"

The man breathed a sigh. "I have enough friends," he countered. "And I won't forget where we came from...or at least where I did." Before his words could sting overmuch, however, Carver gripped his mother's shoulder and offered her a smile. "I'll dress up and make nice with the Orlesian girls if you really want, Mother. Just...don't get your hopes up, alright?"

"Very well," the older woman conceded. "Guests should be arriving soon, along with the minstrels. Will those friends of yours make an appearance?"

"I expect so," Carver admitted, unable to keep the smirk from his lips. "Varric and Anders are the only reason we're in this big house in the first place, and you can't keep Isabela out of a party. Where is Aveline, anyway?"

Leandra's exposed shoulders lifted in a shrug. "She said something about 'securing the perimeter' a few minutes ago. I think she's inspecting the cellar."

Carver nodded and turned, but he glanced back at his mother. "Thanks...for letting them all come." With a nod, he retreated to his own bedroom, resting against the inside of the door to settle his nerves. For a boy from the sticks of Ferelden who'd never owned more than he could carry, entertaining half of the nobles in Hightown to showcase the Amells' return to fortune and position was just about the most daunting thing he could imagine.

He wasn't an Amell, though. Even if he never got any proper magic, he still had his father's name, and he would never forget that. Gathering his courage, the last true Hawke in Kirkwall geared up to  _swim with the sharks_ , stripping off his padded shirt and faded trousers for the finer fabrics he'd earned through blood and sweat and the sacrifice of his sister. Thinking of Bethany got him to conceal her dagger beneath the finery, his Lowtown instincts too deeply rooted for him to face the sharks unarmed. By the time Carver emerged from the modestly-appointed bedchamber-his luxurious four-poster was the only real indulgence he'd allowed himself-the house was already filling with people of note. Carver paused by the banister, looking down at the main room.

The warrior took satisfaction in Gamlen's absence, both from the party and from the house. Though Leandra had extended her brother an invitation to the celebration, Carver had privately made sure that the man knew just how unwelcome he was. He noticed Aveline standing by the front door, looking solid in her regular armour, and he swallowed the lingering resentment which threatened to rear within him again; if the woman hadn't been so stubborn, he'd never have gotten the coin to buy back the manse. He'd also not have lost his twin sister.

"Keep this up and I'll think you're taking brooding lessons from Fenris," Isabela purred from a few steps away. Carver rounded on her, readying a retort, but it died in his throat when his eyes fell upon the rogue. Gone were the lip stud, bangles, medallion earrings, bandana, daggers, highboots, and corset...instead, Isabela's raven hair fell down her exposed shoulders in waves, and she wore a satin dress the colour of the open ocean just after sunset, which was snug in all the right places . "And if you don't put your tongue away," the Rivaini continued, "people are apt to mistake you for a mabari."

Carver blinked and looked away, swallowing the urge to kiss the woman again. He'd learnt his lesson well. "I don't see Varric and the others," he pointed out, scanning the room below them once more.

The clandestine pirate chuckled. "They'll be here," she assured him. "When have you known that dwarf to miss out on free drinks? You still owe him." She elbowed him lightly. "Now get down there and start distracting some ponces for me. A girl's got to eat, you know."

The warrior obeyed with hardly a grumble and not a single backward glance, which took quite a bit of willpower on his part. It wasn't long before he found his mother standing with a couple in her own age cohort. "...and I told my Dulci," the older man said, his words coloured with tones from Orlais, "that if she wanted to impress Viscount Dumar, she was... _ill-equipped_  for the task."

Leandra's laugh was only slightly forced. "But...doesn't Serah Dumar have a son?" At that, both the man and his wife tinkled with laughter, and Carver thought he heard a note of condescension in their stares. "Oh, darling," his mother exclaimed when he stepped closer. "I'd like you to meet the Comte de Launcet and his wife, the Comtesse." She gestured to the couple with obvious reverence. "This is my son, Carver."

The comte's smile had more than a little sneer to it. "Charmed, I am sure," he began, holding out his hand for a feather-light embrace. The fingers withdrew before Carver could properly grip them. "Your mother tells me that you are quite talented."

"That depends on what needs doing," the warrior rebuffed, recalling the day that Merrill had proclaimed him  _the best sworder in Kirkwall_. The memory brought a smirk to his lips. "Or who."

"Oh," the comtesse exclaimed. "But you will certainly not have to...sully yourself, now you are in Hightown." Her giggle was like a shattering champagne glass, cutting through the wafting lute- and lyre-music. "Allow me to present my youngest daughter," she went on, gesturing madly for a skulking young woman to come nearer. "Babette, come meet Carver Amell."

"Hawke," the warrior corrected, willing his teeth not to grind. "My name is Carver Hawke." An uncomfortable silence reigned for a moment, before his mother tittered something to break it.

The girl, Babette, stepped forward. "Pleased to meet you, messere," she mumbled, dipping into a curtsey. Her face was already flushed from wine, and she couldn't quite meet Carver's eyes. Nevertheless, he found himself stuck in conversation with her; every time he looked to his mother, she gave him a brilliant smile, which he couldn't countenance ruining by walking away. And so he listened to the girl speak of all the important people her family knew, of the functions and parties and balls she'd attended.

A lull in the music brought the comte's voice to his ear again. "...of course, since he does not have the stain of his father..."

Carver rounded on the older man, forgetting his pretense of courtesy. "What about my father?"

There was nothing authentic in his mother's smile. "It's nothing, darling," she assured him. "The comte just-"

But the comte himself was evidently not content with being spoken for. "I was just remarking that you are...very  _normal_ , considering your lineage."

The warrior's hands balled into fists. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The older man's goatee twitched, apparently with mirth. "The Maker has not blackened you with magic," he explained. "Unlike so many in your family-and my own son, as well."

Suddenly, Carver looked from the comte to his daughter, and then to Leandra. "Is that what this was all about?" The distress in his mother's face wasn't enough to keep the warrior's voice level. "Mother, you couldn't have this bastard because you added to the shame of magic in the Amell line by running off with Father, and now that this Orlesian git's got a mage for a son, he's not too good to pawn me off on his daughter?"

The older woman's lips worked. "No, darling...I just..."

"Enjoy your party," Carver spat. "I'm going out." He turned heel, ignoring his mother's cries for him to remain, and pushed past Aveline into the anteroom.

Before the warrior could reach the front door, however, the guard-captain called him to a halt. "We need to talk," Aveline called.

Something kept Carver's hand from turning on the latch. "I know," he breathed. "You're sorry about Beth. So's everyone else." He still didn't turn to face her.

"I am sorry," Aveline insisted. "Bethany was- _is_ -a good person, and she deserves better than mucking about with Grey Wardens. But I would've told you that weeks ago if you'd ever come to see me."

Carver spun around. "Why should I have done? To see you sitting pretty in your office, deciding who's good enough to stand with you and who's good enough for the noose?" His frustration only mounted. "If it weren't for you turning me down, we wouldn't have had to go into the bloody Deep Roads in the first place!"

Aveline's face was hard enough to break glass. "You think I haven't told myself that at least a dozen times already, Carver?" She shook her head. "But my reasons were sound...and on top of that, a guard's position isn't glamourous or lucrative enough to keep the templars at bay. At least now she need not fear the Circle." The man looked to counter, but she took a step closer. "But what's done is done," the guard-captain insisted. "And that wasn't what I wanted to talk to you about, anyway."

Carver crossed his arms, aware of how near his broadsword hung, on the wall. "Out with it, then."

"I have a...favour to ask," Aveline replied, an uncharacteristic hint of colour flaring beneath the freckles of her cheeks. "I want you to come by the barracks tomorrow, to my office."

The man's brow quirked. "Why?"

She shook her head. "I'll explain more there," the woman insisted. "Just...promise me you'll come by."

A moment passed, but the air fled Carver's lungs in a defeated sigh. "I will," he vowed. "Can I go now, Captain?"

Aveline rolled her eyes. "Doubt I could stop you if I wanted to," she admitted. "I'll see you tomorrow, Carver. And now I've got to go see how many noblemen the whore's traded pox for coin with in the five minutes you've distracted me."

"You followed me!" Carver pointed out, but he gave up the game, leaving the mansion he hadn't wanted, only to run into Varric and the others waiting just outside.

The dwarf interrupted a story he was telling the guards when he spied the warrior. "Junior!" He exclaimed. "We were wondering when you were gonna show. It's freezing out here!"

Carver shook his head, glancing from Fenris to Anders...and then to Merrill, who stood a half-step apart from the rest. "I was just leaving," he breathed. "You all can go have a good time if you want."

"Nonsense," Varric dismissed. "Who want's to stand around hearing about whose great-great-grandfather scratched some king's arse for a living?" He cackled. "If I'd wanted that, I could've moved down to Orzammar years ago."

"So," Carver ventured, his gaze slipping inexorably to the Dalish mage once more, if only for a heartbeat. "The Hanged Man?"

"The Hanged Man," the dwarf insisted. "A few beers'll get the cold out of us and cut all this tension nicely." With a murmur of general assent, Carver and the others found themselves following Varric down into the labyrinthine walkways of Lowtown, and the promise of a decent evening all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to clafount, from ff.net, for beta-reading!


	25. Harvest Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany has to face her first mission with her newfound brethren, and she must make peace with the steps she's had to take in order to survive.

 

Warmth bathed the Warden as the great doors closed behind her, contrasting to the snowy chill of the snow-blanketed Frostbacks in Firstfall, and after a few moments, she realised that the very floor beneath her feet was lowering almost too smoothly to notice. The more comfortable air was little compensation for the subtle twinge in her blood that she'd come to notice more and more strongly over the past month, which only increased the further she and her companions descended into Orzammar. She'd first noticed it around the other Wardens-a slight buzzing at the back of her mind, an inkling through a fog of dissonance-but as the stone settled beneath her feet and another pair of enormous doors opened in front, the sensation became impossible to ignore.

"It's the 'spawn, Beth," the Commander gruffed, glancing up at her. As always, she used the familiar term from their childhood spent together, while the recruit hadn't even thought of the elf's proper name since that day in the courtyard. "You get used to it...eventually."

Bethany merely nodded, suppressing an urge to shiver, both from the crawling in her veins and the notion that the Commander might have been able to steal a glimpse at her very thoughts. It wasn't the first time that the elf had made her wonder; in the weeks since the Commander's  _proper_  welcome, she and Bethany had spent many hours together, acquainting the junior Warden with the power contained within her blood. It had shocked her at first to learn that Anders was a blood mage, having been presented with the same choice at the Commander's hands. She couldn't help recalling how he'd recriminated Merrill almost ceaselessly, and likely still did, for indulging in the practice. Yet Bethany's own qualms, which were still numerous, could not outweigh the necessity of taking every advantage in her struggle against the darkspawn.

The Hall of Heroes was just as impressive to the junior Warden as it had been when she'd stepped foot here last, after that terrifying, nearly-endless journey through Roads beneath the Waking Sea. In all, more than a month had passed between entering the Deep Roads in the Vimmark Mountains and emerging again in the Frostbacks...and as much time could pass before she saw the surface yet again. Bethany still wasn't certain exactly why they'd come; she only knew that the Commander had required Wardens Oghren and Nathaniel and Bethany herself, along with Barcus, to venture with the elf to Orzammar and the Deep Roads beyond.

Oghren paused to spit at the feet of one of the great statues within the hall, to the general outrage of several surrounding dwarves, but neither the guards nor the commoners looked to take the issue to violence...the dwarven Warden's distinctive armour, and even more his well-armed companions, likely made the difference.

The Commander barked a laugh when the dwarf aimed a solid kick at the statue's shin, for which he had to aim so high that he nearly lost his balance. "You done?"

"Aye," the red-bearded dwarf sighed, stumbling back to his feet, and he led the way into Orzammar proper.

The Wardens didn't get very far, however. A sallow-faced dwarf with short black hair and a close-cropped beard stood at the head of a wedge of soldiers, all armed and armoured. Bethany's heart skipped within her chest, but she relaxed when the man broke into a shadowed smile. "King Behlen grants his welcome to the Grey Wardens," he greeted them in a graveled baritone. "He will receive you in his chambers at your earliest convenience."

The Commander closed the gap between the two lines, giving the dwarf a firm handshake. "Thank you, Vartag," she intoned, more than a hint of gravel in her own voice, as usual. "We'll see the king now."

"Splendid," the greeting dwarf replied. At his signal, the dozen-or-so dwarves at his back split to form an escort and honour guard for their guests, keeping the crowds of the Commons well back as they made their way through.

Stroud had spent precisely enough time in Orzammar to walk from the mines to the Hall of Heroes, with only a brief stop to supply his squad with sufficient rations for the overland trip to Redcliffe, and so Bethany had not really encountered dwarven society on her previous visit. Even now, she didn't have time to fully comprehend the merchants hawking wares from stone-cut booths, backlit by the ever-present glow of the great magma river that cut through the city, before the Wardens were swept up to the so-called Diamond Quarter. The thought struck Bethany that Orzammar and Kirkwall were fairly similar; both were city-states segregated vertically, with the poorest of the poor in the deepest reaches, while the wealthy commanded the heights.

Tittering gossip and exclamations of awe chased the Grey Wardens all the way to the royal palace, and by the time they were ushered into King Behlen's private audience chamber, Bethany had some idea of the esteem in which the dwarves of Orzammar held her newfound brethren and sistren. The king himself sat behind a stone-hewn table, wearing the most garish crown that the junior Warden could ever imagine. It rested on the royal dwarf's head like a castle forged from gold and bronze, resembling a helmet...though not a terribly practical one. "Commander," the king called jovially. "It has been two years too long since last we spoke! I see you've got some new recruits."

Bethany shivered when the man's gaze inspected her, and she got the distinct impression that he could imagine what lay beneath her blue-and-silver armour all too well. She knew better than to acknowledge the glance, or even to speak unless directly addressed. "The darkspawn rest for neither dwarves nor Wardens, Your Majesty," the Commander replied, her tone a shade darker than usual. "I hear you've managed to reclaim your ancestral thaig."

Behlen's grin turned saccharine as he regarded the elf. "It is amazing what we may accomplish when unshackled by the follies of the past," he boasted. "Though the ancestors' wisdom is dear to my heart...which is the reason I petitioned you on the young Lord Dace's behalf."

The Commander inclined her head. "Your letter mentioned that Jerrik's brother Brogan has gone missing in the Deeps?"

A chill settled in Bethany's intestines; she'd expected the Deep Roads as their true destination, but having her prediction confirmed did not exactly please her. The king was unmindful of the junior Warden's discomfort, however. "On an expedition to rediscover Amgarrak Thaig," he informed them. "Jerrik's been granted permission by his lord father to return Brogan, either to Orzammar or to the Stone."

"What were the brother after, Your Majesty?" The Commander asked, putting voice to Bethany's curiosity, as well.

The king's eyes darted from the Wardens to the guards on his walls and back again. "The Memories speak of certain knowledge that Amgarrak might contain," he allowed. "Brogan Dace was meant to investigate, while the Deep Roads were still recovering from the Blight. Jerrik will have more information-he awaits you at your new compound, Commander."

The junior Warden thought she could hear the subtle suspicion in the Commander's voice. "I don't remember petitioning for a compound, Your Majesty," she commented.

Behlen chuckled. "My dear Commander," he sighed, "it was a time-honoured tradition for many generations, until the misfortune that fell upon the Fereldan Wardens two centuries ago. After your order was banished from the surface, Warden traffic in Orzammar mainly consisted of those undertaking the Calling."

Bethany's throat ran dry at the king's casual mention of her death sentence; the Commander had mentioned it in passing, that Grey Wardens eventually succumbed to the taint in their blood just like civilians, and would venture to the Deep Roads to seek out one final battle with the darkspawn. Most Wardens could expect thirty years after taking the Joining, though the Commander had told her in confidence that the Fereldan Wardens might expect a few more. The Commander hadn't offered details, and Bethany had not asked, but it was little consolation to the junior Warden just the same.

"And you happened to have a vacant noble's estate to refit for the purpose," the Commander said, after a moment's consideration.

Behlen's crown slid halfway down his forehead when he nodded, but he re-seated the bucket of metal without missing a beat. "The traitorous Harrowmonts have been extinguished, root and branch," he conceded. The name stuck in Bethany's memory, and she recalled that she and her brother had aided a dwarf named Renvil Harrowmont on the docks in Kirkwall, who was attempting to flee dwarven assassins sent by none other than King Behlen himself. She remembered watching him board a ship to Rivain, or possibly Antiva. The junior Warden bit her tongue on the correction, however; even if the exiled dwarf still lived, he wasn't worth King Behlen's ire...or, more importantly, the Commander's. The dwarven king looked far too pleased with himself as he went on. "All of Orzammar would be honoured for you to be the first official Wardens-in-residence in nearly two hundred years."

A heartbeat passed, and Bethany felt the air grow a bit thicker around them, but the Commander settled it with a barked laugh. "As would we, Your Majesty," she assured him. "Some rest and supplies would be most welcome, before we set out."

"Excellent!" Behlen enthused. "Now, if there is nothing else...?" As though he'd only grudgingly granted them an audience, rather than dragged them in from the gates of the city . When no issues came forth, the king dismissed them with a gesture. "My Second will see you to the compound. May solid stone ever be beneath your feet, Wardens."

A handful of minutes later, Vartag and his men had marched them down the main thoroughfare halfway to where they'd entered it, stopping at the edifice of an estate completely indistinguishable from those to either side. A steward greeted the party at the door, dressed in Grey Warden colours, and informed them that a meal was already prepared.

Nathaniel spoke up for the first time since waking that morning, at the foot of the Frostbacks. "I could start to look forward to coming here."

The Commander spared him a glance-also the first of the day that Bethany had noticed, despite Anders' mention that the two were close-and grunted a laugh. "Just as long as you remember what became of the last people to own this house."

Jerrik Dace met the party in the estate's dining room. He was tall, at least for a dwarf, and very solidly-built. He also had an enormous beast at his side, with thick grey skin and a stubbed horn atop its muzzle. Bethany recalled having to help slay a very similar creature in the Deep Roads, and Barcus must have sensed her unease, for he rumbled a growl at the monster.

"Easy, Snug," the dwarf cautioned, laying a hand on the creature's flank. Tentatively, Bethany gripped Barcus' new spiked collar, and the hound calmed considerably. "He's harmless," the dwarf went on. "Unless you're a darkspawn, that is."

The Commander looked from one pet to another, and the junior Warden caught sight of her smirk. "Those two should get on well, then," she observed. "Now let's eat, and you can tell us what we need to know about this expedition of your brother's."

Bethany still hadn't gotten used to her increased appetite, or the sheer pleasure that eating a solid meal could give her; between that and the nagging in her blood, the junior Warden didn't wind up paying as close attention as she should have to the exchange between Jerrik and the other Wardens. The dwarf was confident that his brother was alive, even though their father had already held a memorial for Brogan. The missing dwarf had sought to recover the lost art of making golems, those living stone statues with which the dwarves had fought the darkspawn to a near-standstill after the Fourth Blight. Jerrik had a notion to find his brother and help complete that mission, and where two-dozen dwarves had apparently failed, four Wardens and a couple of battle-hardened beasts might just prove to be enough.

"We'll set out tomorrow with enough supplies for a month," the Commander announced, after her and her companions had eaten their fill. She turned to the attending steward. "Are the tunnels in here wide enough for Snug to get to any of the quarters?"

The older dwarf nodded. "The bronto might be a tight fit," he observed, "but we can give Lord Dace a fitting chamber for the night."

"I don't call him 'Snug' for nothing," Jerrik pointed out with a long-suffering glance at the beast.

The steward hesitated by the door. "I have prepared four rooms during dinner," he informed them. "Shall I have baths drawn in them while I prepare a fifth for Lord Dace?"

The Commander shook her head. "Don't bother with the extra room," she pronounced, her blood-coloured eyes landing heavily on the junior Warden. "Warden Bethany and I will share." Her glance cut to Oghren, who'd begun to guffaw at her. "And  _you_  will hold your tongue if you want Adron to hear his name from your mouth," she warned, though her lips danced just beneath a smile.

"You're the boss," Oghren allowed, and he occupied himself with a pull off of his aleskin. Nathaniel snickered into his own mug, but made no further comment.

The steward gave them directions to the chamber wing of the estate and then disappeared. Bethany found that she couldn't breathe properly, even as Jerrik and the other Wardens stood up from the stone table, and she numbly followed the Commander and her lieutenants as they made their way through the estate's corridors. Without having to discuss it, the civilian dwarf took the first chamber with his bronto in tow, while Nathaniel and Oghren broke off in their turn, which left the last room for Bethany and the Commander. Once inside, the junior Warden saw that a pair of stone basins steamed beside a fairly large straw-covered bed.

The Commander surveyed the room in silence for a few moments. "I'm not  _really_  going to cut Oghren's tongue out," she admitted, lightly. "Yours, either." The elf's scarred cheek dimpled with her smirk.

Bethany sucked in a breath. "I never wanted this," she husked, before she could catch herself. Then she glanced away, ashamed at the admission.

"Neither did I, Beth," the Commander replied. "For either of us." She turned, undoing her weapons and armour with practiced motions. The lyrium-veined greatblade called  _Starfang_  was placed reverently on the top row of a weapons' rack, while the elf's swordbelt was tied around a middle rung.

Wordlessly, Bethany moved to copy the Commander. Her staff no longer felt too heavy in her hands as she placed it beneath Starfang; after the Commander's truncation of the magical weapon, the human smith Mikhael had worked with Bethany to hollow out much of the shaft and fill it with lyrium-laced steel. The lower third of the staff was taken up by a serrated blade, ideal for stabbing and slicing. The weapon was as much hers as it had ever been Cethlenn's or her fathers, now, if not even more so.

After a few minutes' work, both Wardens stood bereft of steel and leather. The Commander retrieved the daggers from her swordbelt before she approached one of the tubs, and Bethany considered following her example, but some lingering resentment stayed her hand; if tonight was to have another study in crimson, she could use one of the elf's blades to begin it. Even so, the junior Warden stepped out of her shift and smallclothes, sinking into the still-warm water of the nearer basin after the Commander had selected her own.

"You've been in the Deeps before," the Commander noted, after a few breaths of lingering silence. "As a civilian, and after Stroud took you in."

"Yes," Bethany admitted, feeling her throat creak from lack of use over the past few days.

The Commander nodded, but her mouth turned down. "You found them nearly empty, as I did, when I first set foot there." The strength of the elf's glance kept Bethany from protesting. "Where we head, starting tomorrow, the 'spawn will swarm in their hundreds." The junior Warden had no answer to that, other than a shudder, which seemed to reverse the Commander's frown. "Where'd you learn to fight, before you came to us?"

Bethany blinked, trying to settle her fluttering pulse with a deep breath. "I did a little bit of combat with Father, and with Ceth, after..."  _After he died_ , she nearly said, but choked on the words. "When Carver and I made it to Kirkwall, we had to join a gang of mercenaries called the Red Iron, so I suppose that's where I really learnt."

The Commander's gaze shifted from the junior Warden to the armour rack. "That why you coloured your staff red?"

Bethany nodded slightly. "I...tried to change it back, afterward. But the stain was too deep in the wood." But she was used to it, now. "I asked the captain, after our first year, why it was called 'the Red Iron'," the human mage ventured. "He said it was because the blood never washed out."

"That's true enough," the Commander commented with a chuckle. Her eyes fell heavily on Bethany once more, even as the elf worked the grime from her skin. "But that captain taught his men to fight in a line, I expect, and got you to stand well back of it to toss your spells."

"Right," Bethany admitted. "I had a dagger in case anyone got too close, but I always had at least a bit of distance."

The Commander gave her a nearly sympathetic look. "My Wardens don't fight like that," she allowed. "We can't afford to. Take a look at that rack of weapons and tell me what you don't see...what you've not seen once since Stroud took you away."

The junior Warden looked again at the place where their arms and armour hung, her brows knitting as she thought back. "Shields," came her answer, after a few heartbeats. "I haven't seen any Grey Wardens with shields."

"And you won't," the Commander assured her. "Leastwise not under my command. Men fight in lines, with shields pushed together in a wall, except for the few warriors brave enough to take up a two-hander." The elf paused, a distant look in her eye. "But darkspawn don't fight in lines," she went on. "They come in knots and mobs, and when you line up against them, they keep hammering until they split your line into two, and then you die ." The Commander's eyes came into focus as she regarded Bethany. "So we don't give them that chance. We'll  _always_  be outnumbered, Beth. We'll always need to kill twenty of the bastards apiece just to make it out alive."

Bethany recalled the vision of Anders with his staff-modified not too differently from her own, now-cutting his way into groups of darkspawn, felling as many with the blade as with his spells. In her training so far in Redcliffe, Bethany supposed she'd been learning to do the same, though she hadn't realised it at the time. "When that genlock struck me down," she mused, closing her eyes against the memory, "I thought I was going to die."

"You wouldn't've, at least if Anders hadn't been with you," the Commander informed her in a low voice. "It were trying to take you to breed." Bethany saw that the elf's face was even more stone-like than normal as she went on. "That's why there aren't many women in the Wardens...the darkspawn use us to make more of them.  _Broodmothers_ , we call them...the great mindless mountains of flesh that spit out darkspawn day and night." Her eyes narrowed at Bethany's horror. "You thought the Maker sprouted them from the ground?"

The junior Warden's lips worked soundlessly, and she remembered that Anders had only insisted in venturing below ground after she couldn't be persuaded to stay back. "So...he would've tried to kill me? If Barcus hadn't..."

"Anders?" The Commander ventured, and then she inclined her head. "Aye, if he's the same man I remember. He'd rather see you dead himself than turned into...that." She shook her head. "As would I, and Nathaniel, and Oghren.  _That's_  why you've got to take up the blood, Beth. So that you're never unarmed, as long as your heart's beating...and so you don't get tempted by a demon's offer when the darkspawn are dragging you away."

The water in Bethany's tub felt suddenly hot, in contrast to the chill that the elf's words had generated within her. Her cheeks grew wet as another wave of resentment hit her, at this life she'd never dreamt of. "I...understand, Commander," the woman managed, after she'd swallowed her bitterness. She could even see the cold logic in the other Warden's pronouncement.

In response, the Commander looked away from the junior Warden, down at her own hand. She seemed to consider the ring there for a long moment. "You may call me by name, when we're alone," Athadra allowed. "Never in front of anyone else," she cautioned, still considering her hand as it clenched into a fist.

"Is...anything wrong?" Bethany's heart skipped when her tongue tasted the name of her old friend again. "Athadra?" The elf in the other stone basin took a deep breath, and for a split second, the human Warden thought she saw a frisson of doubt and pain cross Athadra's features.

But the moment passed, and the elf rose from her tub. "No," she breathed, glancing over her shoulder to the large bed. "It looks like we'll have to share," Athadra observed. "Will that be a problem?"

Bethany tried not to look too closely at the rivulets that coursed down Athadra's scarred torso, or at the subtle curves which were still hinted at beneath the chorded muscle of the elf's frame...until Athadra turned, and Bethany caught an uncharacteristic longing in the other woman's eyes that was almost enough to distract her from the buzzing in her blood. "I..." The junior Warden's breath caught, and suddenly the water around her felt much too cold. "I don't think so, Athadra."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, always, to clafount for her beta-reading skills!


	26. Fragments Of The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A certain Dalish elf has an evening on the town with a certain sword-wielding young gentleman...except not all goes as planned.

 

Merrill tugged at her scarf self-consciously as she wandered even deeper into Hightown, careful to never stray more than three steps from Carver's side. The haughty way the  _shem'len_  of Hightown regarded her was odd; the elf had gotten used to the indifferent hostility of the Alienage elves, and even the stubborn, juvenile superiority of the Lowtown residen ts hardly bothered her anymore, unless she forgot Varric's twine and had to ask more than one  _shem'len_  for directions back home.

The twine lay in the centre of her table this night, while Merrill herself was leagues away. She couldn't afford to lose sight of her companion, then, because the people who crossed her path frightened her far more than having to spend a wintry night stalking through the streets. At least then, one of the guards might try to throw her in the gaol, and then she could ask Aveline to give her proper directions.

"Here we are," Carver informed her, stopping right in front of an odd building; it had tables outside its clear windows, cordoned off from the boulevard by a flimsy fence of chain that anyone could step over, even if there weren't the unguarded gap . "They have tea from Seheron, I'm told," the warrior ventured.

Merrill's face registered her confusion. "Why would we come here?" Half of the tables were filled with finely-dressed  _shem'len_  who threw her dirtier looks than they would a rat. "You said you wanted to go out." Truth to tell, she was still a bit angry with him, though she knew she shouldn't be-he was safe, and he'd started talking to her again.

Except now Carver looked bashful, and Merrill knew she'd said the wrong thing  _again_. "I said I wanted to take you out," the warrior corrected her. "You know...on a...date."

The elf was about to respond when a tall man approached them. "Excuse me, messere," he greeted, his voice like an oily rag. "You should know that the  _Memoires du Chevin_  has a...policy, about admitting servants to the premises." The man spared Merrill a dirty look that made her want to shrink away, lest she pull the marrow from his bones.

Carver's face glowed as brightly as a campfire. "What do you..." When it hit him, he drew up to his full height. "She isn't my bloody servant! She's my...friend."

The attendant's expression turned from scornful to horrified; he looked to each side, taking a step back from the pair of them. "My apologies, serah," he allowed. "Do you intend to bring your  _friend_  to dine with you at this establishment?"

Merrill could tell that the strange man was talking Carver into hurting him, without even realising it, so she stepped toward the warrior to place a calming hand on his shoulder. "It's alright," she assured him. "We don't want to cause any trouble..."

He sagged visibly. "I guess not," the warrior conceded, and he turned on his heel, and Merrill had to jog-carefully in the dark, to keep from stepping on something she shouldn't-to keep up with him.

When they were well away from the awkwardness that her presence had helped to cause, Merrill tugged on the sleeve of her companion's doublet. "What was that all about, anyway?"

The pair stopped in a deserted alcove, halfway between the Viscount's Keep and Carver's large, new house. The warrior couldn't quite meet Merrill's gaze, though. "I'm...sorry," he admitted. "I should've known that would happen. I guess if I'm not trying to kill something, I'm not doing anything right."

"Now that's not true," Merrill pointed out, her brows knitting. "We were walking perfectly well together before that strange man showed up out of nowhere." The entire situation still confused her. "And why would you want to take the date from me, anyway? You know it's the sixteenth of Firstfall as well as I." Carver managed to look her in the eye, but then he burst out laughing, and the elf got a hollow feeling in her stomach. "Wait...did I miss something again?" Her head tilted. "Was it dirty?"

Carver bit down on his knuckle for a moment and looked abashed again. "No, Merrill," he managed. "Nothing to do with the date of the month. It's...I just wanted to do something nice for you," he admitted. "To make up for being a bit of an arse. More than a bit, really."

"Oh," Merrill intoned, though she still didn't quite understand for a moment. And then she did. " _Ohhh_ ," she breathed. "You mean a  _vi'lath_?" Suddenly it was her cheeks colouring, despite the lack of comprehension in the man's expression. "It's the first stage of courting," the elf explained. "Usually it begins with presenting the skin of an animal you've killed as a gift, though," she observed. "So...I suppose you were right that you should've tried to kill something first." Merrill only stopped babbling because her lungs had emptied, but she sought to remedy that by gasping.

Before the elf could continue, however, Carver spoke up again. "I  _knew_  it," he gruffed, shaking his head. "I'm...no good at this. I'm sorry." He turned to go, his shoulders rounded.

"Wait!" the Dalish elf strode beside him, concern creasing her features. "I'll get horribly lost if you just walk away," she pointed out. "And there's plenty of darkness left...and probably some bandits by the Chantry. We could see what kind of trouble there is to get into." He hadn't admitted his intent, but he hadn't denied it, either. And if she kept talking, he wouldn't get a chance to. "But I suppose you'd have to get your sword," the elf reasoned. "So we could...stop by your nice, big mansion. To pick up your sword. And maybe some biscuits?"

The man had been opening and closing his mouth for a minute or more, trying to get a word in. Finally he broke broke through, meeting the verbal avalanche with a sole syllable. "Yes."

Merrill swallowed, even though her mouth felt dry. "Good," she answered. "Biscuits are much better than Qunari tea, anyway."

"I meant that..." Carver began, though he looked away from her as they walked. "That I was trying to...court you, I suppose. But I guess I've cocked that up, too."

Her heart fluttered again- why could she never remember to ask Anders about that ?-and Merrill wasn't sure how to respond for a moment. "It's alright," she ventured. "I'm not the best at these things, either. Keepers don't normally take lovers, even from other clans. It risks making them partial...any disputes that involved their partner could never be judged evenly."

The estate's entrance appeared as if from nowhere, and Carver brought her into the anteroom, but he didn't reach for his sword. "But...what if a Keeper falls in love? Or wants to have children?"

Merrill jumped at the chance to explain, because it distracted her from her own questions. "Keepers have to live for everyone in the clan," she said. "It does happen that they fall in love, like with anyone else, but it's rare that they embark on the  _vi'lath_. More often they arrange for the object of their infatuation to move to a new clan." The elf followed Carver all the way to the inner door which led to the main room of the house. The rugs on the floor felt wonderful against her bare feet. "It's more common for a Keeper to have a child, to preserve the gift of magic for the People, but the child is normally placed with a new clan as soon as possible as well."

"Just like what happened to you?" Carver still looked confused, and even a bit dismayed, but he was obviously trying to understand. Merrill was grateful for that.

"Oh, yes," the elf affirmed. "I was probably the daughter of the Keeper of my old clan. It also helps tie the clans together, no matter how far we wander. The clan I was born into roams around Antiva and Nevarra, mostly," she told him, though she was almost certain it wasn't for the first time.

Carver nodded. "You're not a First anymore, though," he pointed out. "I mean...you don't have to...you could..." He heaved a sigh. "We could do that vee-leth thing you talked about," the warrior said in a much smaller voice than usual. "If...if you wanted to."

The elf took a sharp breath, suddenly finding the grain of the inner door quite fascinating. "I've...never really thought about it," she admitted, a bit sheepishly. "N-not that I wouldn't like to," Merrill pressed on, when she saw Carver shrink down in the corner of her eye. "But I am still a mage of the Dalish, and I still intend to serve my clan," she breathed, glancing up at the man. "They are still my people, even if...even if they'd rather exile me than let me help them."

A mix of emotions passed over Carver's features, so quickly that Merrill couldn't sort them out. "They are," he assured her, his brows knitting together. "And I don't...I don't want to do anything to keep you from helping them." His chest swelled with a breath that he held for what felt like half a minute, before he let it out quickly. "But I'm fond of you, Merrill. Not just because of...you know. The blood thing."

Merrill felt her chest tighten as she remembered the jeers of her clan and the bitter disappointment in her Keeper's eyes when it became known that she'd delved into blood magic. Even before then, though, she hadn't really had any friends...except perhaps for Tamlen and Mahariel, but they was gone, and the mage held no illusions that they'd have reacted any differently than the rest of the clan even so. "I'm fond of you too," the elf admitted, realising it in the same instance that she'd given it voice. "You aren't like any of the  _shem'len_  I've met since I came to Kirkwall."

"Thanks," the warrior replied. "I think, anyway."

"Oh, did I say something wrong?" Merrill's bottom lip stung with the force of her bite, and she suddenly tasted copper in her mouth. Carver must've noticed it, too, because he pulled in a breath and turned his gaze toward her chin. The little bit of blood let her hear the man's heart, pounding nearly as furiously as her own, even though they'd been standing still for quite awhile. "I'm sorry..."

"No," the warrior insisted, meeting her eyes once more. "You're not like anyone I've met since...well, since I was six years old." He shook his head. "Do you want to come in? Maybe have that biscuit after all? We've got some herbs for tea, too," he added. "They're not from the Qunari lands, but they'll do."

Merrill nodded, not trusting herself to speak, in case she blurted out something that would make him revoke the invitation. She followed the warrior and waved to Sandal at the dwarf's enthusiastic greeting, and soon enough she and Carver were in the kitchen, alone again. "Do you mean Athadra?" The elf ventured, as the man busied himself with setting up a kettle for tea. "Do I remind you of her?"

Carver's answer was a long time coming. "In some ways," he allowed, still turned away from her. He looked to be having trouble starting a fire, until he gave up and stole some from a candle. "She wasn't Dalish, but she was close." The man finally rounded on Merrill when the kettle had been set to boil, and he carried a platter filled with more hardbread than all of the food that Merrill had eaten that day. "I remember being fond of her, too, a long time ago."

The elf blinked, uncertain what to make of the admission. "Did you ever tell her about how you felt?"

The warrior's cheeks coloured lightly and he sighed. "I was a boy," he pleaded. "And she was apt to hit me even when she was in a good mood." He shook his head. "At first, I thought that I was just recalling how she made me feel as a child, when I was around you," he said. "But it's been...what? Seven months now?"

"Closer to eight," Merrill corrected him.

Carver gave her a rare, true smile, untouched by sarcasm or bloodlust. "Eight, then," he allowed. "And it hasn't gone away. Every time I'm with you, I feel...better. Like it doesn't matter that I don't belong here."

Merrill wished that the Blight-taken water would boil already, so that she could water the desert her throat had become. "I...think I understand," she answered, looking down at the platter. Despite her lack of affinity with elemental magic, the kettle seemed to respond to her wish, because it stole Carver's reply with an insistent whistle. The warrior answered the call quickly, and Merrill felt a bit embarrassed to have him serve her so.

Once the tea was steeping in a pot beside the biscuits, Carver sat back down. "Beth says that she's really different, now. Hardly recognisable."

The elf's brow quirked. "You've heard from Bethany?"

Carver nodded. "Just this morning, Bodahn got a letter. I was going to tell you after we sat down at the cafe," he claimed. "I still want to hunt that bastard down and teach him some manners."

Merrill giggled, thrilled at the news that his sister had survived after all, and more than a little tempted by his stated desire. "But then Aveline would have to come 'round, and with how often you've seen her lately, you don't want her new man to start suspecting something..."

The warrior gruffed a laugh. "Especially since I'm the one that got them together in the first place?" He shook his head, and poured each of them a good measure of tea. "Bethany made it to Redcliffe, but she can't say too much," he informed her. "Grey Wardens and their secrets. But she did say that 'her commander' wears full armour and uses a sword better than I do," he went on. "So believe me, I've got less than no interest in... _wooing_  her."

The elf nearly choked on her first soggy bite of biscuit, but she managed to force it down, despite the nervous laugh that took hold. Was that what Carver was trying to do? Then another thought entirely struck her. "But I heard from somewhere that Athadra's a mage," Merrill mused. Her eyes widened. "She must have found the  _din'atish'esara_ ," the elf breathed.

"The what in the when, now?" Carver's bow quirked, but an amused smirk played across his lips.

"I'm sorry," Merrill breathed, after taking another drink of her tea and nearly scalding her tongue. " There are hints in the lore of an old magic, developed in the days of Arlathan when first the Tevinters sought to subjugate the People. Mages learnt to pick up sword and shield, using their magic to give them great prowess in battle. We had to fight a few  _Ena'sa'lin_ on Sundermount with those talents, before we woke  _Asha'bellanar_." She heaved a sigh. "It...wasn't enough, to keep the  _shem'len_  from enslaving us," the elf admitted. "And they tried to stamp it out, just like they did with  _esara'lin_ -blood magic-until only a few traces remained."

Carver nodded for a moment, before a hint of confusion tinged his expression. "Wait...what do you mean, the Tevinters tried to  _stamp out_  blood magic?" There was no smirk to soften the cocking of his eyebrow, this time. "They're the ones who made it so bloody horrible in the first place."

Merrill clapped a hand over her mouth; she realised that she was sharing jealously-guarded scraps of knowledge with a mundane, a  _shem'len_. Knowledge she'd spent her entire life collecting and guarding. Yet...Carver wasn't just any human. He looked at her with genuine curiosity, instead of the hostility she'd come to expect from others of his kind. And when she thought about it, he wasn't exactly a mundane anymore...not really. With a shaking breath, the elf decided to go against her instincts. They'd already spoken of the broadstrokes of history, after all...it couldn't hurt to fill in a few details. She could trust him not to misuse them. "That is true," the elf conceded. "But the magisters stole the secrets of  _esara'lin_  from the People, in the days when we took pity on them. Once the  _El'vhen_  were enslaved, the magisters made learning the art a capital offence for anyone but a magister."

The warrior made a thoughtful noise. "I suppose that makes sense," he admitted. "Tobrius and you have both told me that blood magic makes regular magic stronger-"

"Yes," Merrill broke in, her excitement at having someone to share her thoughts with overwhelming the urge to keep them secret. "And that was too much power to allow slaves or common  _shem'len_  to wield," she pointed out. "I suspect, from what we've done together,  _esara'lin_ was also how all of the People knew a bit of magic, before Arlathan. At one time it was learnt, just like any other skill." A sigh tore from her breast, tears suddenly clouding the elf's vision. "We've lost so much," Merrill lamented. "Almost everything. And the Keeper would see us lose more, still."

The warrior's hand was warm as it covered her left wrist, beside the platter of hardbread. "What do you mean, Merrill?"

His fingers anchored the elf, and she considered him for a long moment. "I never told you the reason that I was exiled," she breathed. "Did I?"

Carver shook his head. "I never asked. I figured it was for the blood magic, but..."

"It was," Merrill admitted. "At least partially. But it was also because of the  _El'u'vi'an_." She'd already told him too much, but she'd never been able to talk to anyone...not even Marethari, in the end. And it felt so good to be able to talk about it. "It's a mirror," she explained. "Or, rather, a system of mirrors all connected by magic. They once covered the breadth of Thedas, spanning the  _El'vhen_  empire...before."

"Before Arlathan?" Carver ventured, only a hint of teasing in his tone.

The elf giggled. "Right," she said. "We found one, while we were moving through Ferelden to flee the Blight. It's almost unheard of to find an  _El'u'vi'an_ still intact," she assured him. "I couldn't believe it when Tamlen told me about it. I doubt he even knew what it was!"

Mention of Tamlen made the warrior stiffen slightly. "Is he...a friend of yours?"

Merrill bit her lip again and hissed, the sting of the re-opened cut ten times worse than the initial injury. With an annoyed sigh, she healed it inexpertly and washed the taste of blood away with the last of her teacup. "He was," the elf stated. "He and Mahariel. They were hunting partners, almost like brother and sister...and they would keep me company sometimes."

Carver's brows knitted in concern. "Are they...still with the clan?"

The elf shook her head. "Tamlen discovered some ruins in the wild mountains in northern Ferelden, where the  _shem'len_  hadn't settled. That's why we took that route to the coast, to try and keep out of trouble." Merrill tried to distance her thoughts from her heart as she poured herself more tea. "He told Mahariel about it, and they tried to explore them. The Keeper had me making poultices to help the halla sleep, for after we boarded the ship, so they didn't tell me where they were going..." Her voice cracked, then, and she had to look away. "But then Mahariel came running back, a few hours later, without Tamlen."

The warrior chewed thoughtfully on a biscuit as she spoke, but after a few moments of silence, he swallowed. "What happened to him?"

"Mahariel said that they'd found darkspawn in the ruins," Merrill went on. "Along with a few strange-looking  _shem'len_  that attacked them just like the darkspawn, too sick with the Blight to help themselves." She blinked away her tears. "At the centre of the ruins stood the  _El'u'vi'an_...and it glowed with a sickening light, to hear Mahariel tell it. She tried to pull Tamlen away once they'd killed all the darkspawn around it, but it captivated him, and..." The elf closed her eyes for a moment, willing the memory away, even as she recounted it. "He...stepped through the mirror."

She heard Carver gasp. "...What happened then?"

Merrill took another drink to steady herself. "Mahariel told me that the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, and she took off running, all the way back to the clan." More tears came, unbidden, staining the elf's cheeks and dripping into her scarf. "But she must've got injured in the fighting with the darkspawn, because soon after, Mahariel got sick with the Blight. She..." The hand at Merrill's wrist shifted, until her and Carver's fingers laced together, and somehow that gave her the strength to keep talking. "We had to ease her pain ."

"Maker," Carver exclaimed, his voice raw. "I had no idea. Now I know why you didn't want to come with me on the expedition." When Merrill nodded but offered no other response, he took a moment to ask the obvious question. "But...how does all of that have to do with you being exiled?"

The elf caught her breath, pushing the painful thoughts as far down into the back of her mind as they would go. "I was a First," she explained. "When Mahariel spoke of ruins, and the mirror, I knew exactly what she described, even if she didn't. And...I couldn't let their discovery just disappear. I couldn't let their deaths be for nothing."

Carver's grip did not melt away, but he did pull back from the table a few centimetres. "What did you do, Merrill?"

"I tracked down the ruins," she said in a rush. "I sought the chamber with the  _El'u'vi'an_ , and I took one of its shards before we moved on." A shiver crawled over her shoulders. "The Keeper had forbidden me to do so; she said that it had already taken too much from the clan, but...I just couldn't."

The warrior's hand jerked involuntarily. "You took a tainted piece of glass away from a temple filled with darkspawn corpses?"

Merrill looked sharply at the man, the accusation in his undertone all too clear. "I was  _careful_ ," she vowed. "I wanted to cleanse the  _El'u'vi'an_  of the taint...restore it to its working order. I thought...that would have made their sacrifice worthy."

Carver relaxed, and so did Merrill, once he took her hand again. "I guess that's true," he commented. "And you must've found some way to fix the piece you took, since you're still here."

"I did," Merrill assured him. "That's what drove me to learning blood magic. Marethari kept dithering...she would not help me, and she didn't have the power to take the shard away from me. If I'd had piles of lyrium lying around, I wouldn't have done it...but the spirit offered its aid, when my Keeper would no t."

The warrior nodded. "I'm sorry you had to do that," he said. "For what it's cost you. Having to leave your family..."

The elf's voice fled her at the earnest look of sympathy she got from him.  _Oh, Sylaise,_  she thought to herself.  _Why can't Carver be Dalish_? Merrill swallowed. "It's not your fault," she assured him. "And I will keep trying; I will keep Tamlen and Mahariel alive in my work."

"Does the little piece work?" Carver leaned forward, then, more of that all-consuming curiosity in his eyes.

Merrill took a breath. "No," she admitted. "It needs to be whole. I've been trying to reconstruct an  _El'u'vi'an_  with other pieces of glass, built around the true sliver, but nothing I've tried seems to be working."

Carver considered his teacup for a long time, and then shocked the elf more than he ever had before. "What if you had the rest of it?"

"...What do you mean?" The elf managed, after her heart skipped a beat.

"I mean," the warrior went on, "what if we...went back to Ferelden? Got the missing pieces of the mirror, and brought them back here?" His sapphire eyes were clear as they looked at her. "I could even write to Bethany and Athadra, to see if they were interested...just in case there are any darkspawn still lingering about."

Merrill's knuckles hurt with the force of her own grip, but Carver made no complaint. "You would really do that?" She breathed, incredulous. "For me?"

"I know it's not a deer pelt," Carver shot back at her. "But...it might be a start? " When he smiled, the room seemed to brighten almost beyond recognition...and Merrill's own future no longer felt half so shadowed as it had for most of a year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as ever, to my wonderful beta-reader clafount at ff.net. I'd also like to thank wtgw for dropping another review, along with everyone who's read the story so far!


	27. Blood Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fortune and favours bring old friends together in Ferelden.

 

Gulls brought the first hints that they were nearing land, though the sight wasn't nearly as welcome for Isabela as it probably was for Merrill. The poor girl had been seasick for more than a day, ever since the mid-Wintersend gale had tossed their little boat about the choppy Waking Sea. Carver was with her, though, so Isabela didn't let the elf's distress distract her from the pleasure of the sea. It was almost too much, seeing the lazy crewmen slop about under someone else's command, but the pirate was too attached to her own skin to raise her tongue against the captain's ineptitude. Castillon had eyes and ears at every major port from Val Royeaux to Rialto, and she didn't need him hearing about a lippy Rivaini skipping between Ferelden and the Free Marches .

So Isabela kept to herself for most of the journey, hovering near the prow to bear witness to the endless horizon. It was just shy of a year since she'd nosed the  _Siren's Call_  into the teeth of a squall in these very waters, and the sea served as a graveyard for too many of the men who'd heeded her word. "Better in bed with Davy Jones than in Seheron," she'd screamed at the time, and they'd believed her. She owed them too much to hide from the waves that had pulled them under. Isabela tucked those memories away when the shadow of land loomed to the South, bathed in the amber light of sunset.

An hour after full dark, the little cog limped into dock at Highever, and the crew disappeared into the city hardly a minute after the boat was tied off. Isabela supposed she couldn't begrudge them their pleasures-filled as their purses had been by a bit of silver from Hightown-but the lack of care they took in their ship made the pirate want to steal it from them just to give it a better crew. The thought passed as Carver helped Merrill down the gangplank, and Isabela reluctantly followed them.

"You were right, Isabela," the elf breathed, after she'd gotten her bearings on the dock. "Being up on deck is much better than the hold. At least I could throw up without ruining someone else's day."

The pirate laughed, struck by the girl's earnestness. "And you managed to feed a few fish, too !" She tossed off the cloak she'd worn during the voyage and stalked three steps behind her companions all the way to the boardwalk. "I think I know a nice place to room for the night," Isabela mused, thinking back to the last time she'd called on the city.

Carver shot her a knowing smirk from over his shoulder. "When you say 'nice place'," he snarked, "I have to ask if it has whores or thieves in it."

"Both," the pirate assured him, answering his smirk with a lascivious grin, and then she laughed when he stumbled on a loose plank. A moment later, Isabela took note of a pair of hooded figures loitering near the entrance of the pier. Her fingers tingled, ready to take up her daggers. "We expecting company?"

The warrior tensed for a moment, but Merrill just kept walking toward the strangers. "Hello, Bethany!" After a heartbeat the elf winced. "Oh, you're wearing a hood," she observed. "So I probably shouldn't have shouted your name out like that. I'm so sorry !"

Isabela heard a half-familiar giggle, and she added a husky chuckle of her own, stepping between her two companions to properly survey their welcoming party. Two well-wrapped figures, one nearly as tall as the pirate herself and the other more than a head shorter, both of their faces shadowed by cowls. But they both gasped and cried out her name simultaneously, which was entirely too gratifying for the Rivaini. "What?" She shot back, as the two Grey Wardens unhooded themselves. "Were you expecting someone el se?"

Bethany and Athadra shared a questioning glance, and despite the depth of the foggy night, Isabela saw a blush colour the taller mage's cheeks. The elf barked a laugh. "I knew you were in Kirkwall, but I had no idea that you knew the Hawkes." Athadra's blood-coloured eyes gave the pirate a once-over that made her remember their one night together, back when Isabela had a ship. "You still lying low?"

Isabela could guess the source of the elf's information, but she didn't dare vocalise it-both she and Athadra's likely contact had enough troubles . "Until I get another ship," she replied, casting a scornful look back at the sorry cog they'd taken across the sea. "A proper one."

Carver cleared his throat; he'd stiffened when the Wardens exposed their faces, but now he found his voice. "It's...good to see you again, Adra," he ventured. "You too, Beth," he added a bit hesitantly, even as his sister stiffened awkwardly.

"It's alright," the elven Warden assured her taller companion. "We're sneaking around. Just don't let Oghren know I'm getting soft." Bethany visibly relaxed, while Athadra fixed Carver with a scarred smirk. "Glad we both made it through the Blight alive, Knifey," she assured him. "Sorry about Ceth." Then the elf's crimson eyes found Merrill, and she inclined her head. " _An'daran atish'an._ "

Merrill shot back a reply in Elvish, and the two mages had a short conversation in the musical tongue. It struck Isabela's ear as close to Rivaini in its rhythm, but she couldn't make out when one word ended and another began. "Not even most Dalish can speak the Old Tongue so well," Merrill breathed, though her wonderment was laced with a healthy suspicion. "And you lack  _vallas'lin_ ," she pointed out.

"True," the Warden conceded. "Yet I've written my worth in blood, just the same ."

Isabela breathed a chuckle, stalking past the two Wardens, away from her beloved ocean. "Some of that blood was mine, as I recall," she purred.

Athadra fell in beside the pirate, leading their combined party up into the shadowed alleyways of Highever. Both of the Wardens replaced their cowls, which got Isabela curious, though the elf spoke before the pirate could act on that curiosity. "I seem to remember you taking a bit of mine in trade, after I healed you up," she replied.

"Maker, Isabela," Carver swore. "Is there  _anyone_  I know that you haven't already slept with?"

Bethany's breathless giggle sounded from beneath her hood. "I don't remember much sleeping being involved." The girl's voice had changed subtly in the months since she'd disappeared underground, Isabela realised. It wasn't gruff and husky from battle-cries, at least not yet, but Bethany's tones held no note of the blushes that the pirate had once elicited so easily. Isabela couldn't decide whether the odd twinge in her belly was relief or disappointment, so she settled for indifference, content to let Carver's spluttered objections to  _too much information_ provide cover .

From somewhere behind the Rivaini, Merrill mused, as if to herself. "I wonder where Barcus is? I don't think I've ever seen you without him at your shins before."

"He's guarding the camp," Bethany offered in answer. "We'll see him soon."

Isabela glanced over her shoulder. "Do I want to know why we're going to sleep under the stars, rather than in a bawdy house like respectable people?"

The other woman's brown eyes glinted beneath her hood. "You really don't," Bethany assured her, and the hollowness in her voice was enough to give the pirate a chill.

"We should get a move on," Athadra barked from beside the Rivaini. "Before some bastard in a uniform decides to kill himself on our blades."

Merrill remarked that sleeping outside would be lovely, but otherwise, the party kept silent as they made their way out of the port town. Isabela had never been more than three streets away from the harbour, so she didn't mind when Bethany nudged her aside and took the lead beside Athadra, though the pirate regretted the Wardens' paranoia; their cloaks made the rear-view dreadfully boring.

The climb away from the sea was nearly as bad as Kirkwall, but Isabela had gotten plenty of experience on that city's steps, so she'd hardly broken a sweat when they reached level ground. Unlike Kirkwall, however, Highever's streets were nearly deserted after dark. The pirate recalled some massacre during the civil war that had taken place in the castle, but she didn't know how many people in the town had fallen; in any case, the size of their party worked against them, if they wished to remain unnoticed by the guards. "We should split up," she suggested. "Meet outside the gates. Beth can show me the way."

Athadra shot Isabela a crimson glance from beneath her hood, but didn't stop walking. "No," she said, simply. "If they want to die so badly, we shan't let them take us piecemeal."

The elf's tone was final, and without the sway of a ship's deck beneath her feet, Isabela found she couldn't bring herself to argue. Still, the rebuke stung for reasons that the pirate didn't fully want to comprehend, so she let the group's icy silence reign as they picked their way through the dark, muddy streets. Sooner than she expected, a low-slung gate loomed in the misty distance, on the brink of being closed by a couple of bored-looking boys in Highever livery . One of them snapped to attention at the group's approach. "Where do you lot think you're going?"

"Denerim," Bethany replied, before anyone else had a chance to speak. "We're making a pilgrimage overland to Andraste's birthplace."

Her earnest-sounding piety must have convinced the guardsmen, for their hostile indifference evaporated and they moved aside, ushering the party through the gate without any more fuss. Isabela was impressed by the smoothness of the lie. "I'm proud of you," she effused, once they were beyond the guards' earshot. "For a minute there, it looked like we might have to make a break for it."

Bethany took the praise easily enough. "I do want to go to Denerim someday," she admitted.

"You'll see it soon enough," Athadra called over her shoulder. "Alistair'll want us all parading through the streets for Wardens' Day, especially me, since I had to miss it last year."

"Alistair?" Carver ventured. "You mean... _the_  Alistair?"

"King Alistair Theirin," the Warden sighed. "Aye, the very same." Now that they were out of Highever's torchlight, Athadra threw open her cloak and gestured for Bethany to do likewise. The taller mage unshouldered her staff and summoned a ball of light to guide them along the road. "I don't think he's forgiven me yet for putting that crown on his head, though," Athadra mused.

"Wow," Carver sighed. "Hob-nobbing with the King of Ferelden. We've come a long way since Lothering."

Merrill giggled from beside him. "I don't think you're invited, Carver," she pointed out.

"Not unless you wanna join your sister a bit more permanently," Athadra affirmed, her blood-coloured eyes casting him a long glance from over her shoulder. "And I wouldn't do that to Misses Hawke, even if you asked me nice."

The boy had no answer to that for a few moments, and so the group ambled down the dark lane in companionable silence. "You know," he wondered at last, "you aren't nearly as scary as Anders and Bethany warned me about, Adra."

Isabela took a surreptitious sidestep, placing a pace's distance between her and Carver, and her caution was rewarded almost immediately; the elven Warden spun around almost more quickly than the pirate could follow, and she spied a pair of glinting daggers crossed in front of the younger Hawke's throat. "I am the Commander of the Grey," Athadra breathed, her eyes flashing as dangerously as her blades. "And the Champion of Redcliffe. Do not mistake my charity for weakness ."

A stray glance told Isabela that Bethany wasn't about to intervene, either from respect or sheer fear, though Merrill had drawn up dangerously. Carver's lips parted soundlessly, but he raised his hands in supplication. "Sorry," he choked out at last. "I didn't mean…"

"I know," the elf assured him, withdrawing her weapons and re-sheathing them behind her back. "If you must know, I didn't reprimand you at the docks because I feared Teyrn Fergus had ears there...and he's none too fond of the Grey Wardens, since we had to wipe out a village near here that had gotten too tainted to preserve ."

Carver swallowed hard, looking from his sister to Merrill, and then to Isabela. The pirate shrugged, for whatever it was worth. "There might be ears out here, too," Isabela ventured. "We shouldn't stick around to find out."

Athadra nodded and turned heel, her back to Carver and Merrill. Isabela noticed the Dalish elf throwing her a dirty look, but the kitten held her peace, as the two Wardens led the rest of them off of the well-beaten path and into thicker woods . Carver seemed more cowed than he had since returning from the Deep Roads, and tension kept all of them silent for more than an hour, until they came to a clearing.

A swift bark sounded in the distance, but a heartbeat later, the source of the noise crashed into Bethany and nearly bowled her over. She staggered under Barcus' assault, but the mage recovered, throwing her arms around the beast for a fierce hug. When she released the hound, he scurried to the newcomers, greedy for attention.

"Hello, mutt," the pirate greeted him, offering a quick scratch behind his ears before he moved on to harass Merrill and Carver. Isabela brushed passed the boy and stepped more fully into the campsite. There were two tents set up to either side of a firepit, which presented a problem, or possibly an opportunity. "I guess you really weren't expecting me," she observed, plying the elven Warden with a smirk. "I seem to have forgotten a tent of my own."

A shiver crawled up the pirate's spine at the cool glance Athadra spared her. "It were an accident, I'm sure," she replied. "Though I'm sure Beth or I could make room, if you were of a mind to share." A hint of the ice in her stare melted, just as she looked expectantly at the firepit, and without warning it sprang to life, suddenly bathing the both of them in heat and light.

"So you two don't share?" Isabela broached, arching an eyebrow.

Athadra wetted her lips. "On occasion," she allowed. "But I still like sleepin' alone, most nights." Those crimson eyes swept down to her own right hand, where Isabela knew she still wore a simple pewter ring, though the pirate had no desire to learn its true value.

"Then I'll keep Bethany's tent warm," Isabela decided. "If that's alright, Champion," she went on, fixing the elf with a mocking smirk.

The Warden gruffed a laugh and shot a look at the twins, who still clustered with Merrill around the hound. "That's up to her," Athadra pronounced. "She ain't a blushing virgin."

"Not anymore," the pirate agreed, letting her eyes catch on the fairer Hawke twin for a couple of heartbeats. "You're welcome for that, by the way. She used to blush enough to heat a stewpot ."

"Speaking of," the Warden said, her nostrils flaring, "I think Barcus has caught us a deer. I'll go dress it. You kick that lot into setting up the spit."

Isabela was on the verge of telling Athadra not to push her luck, but the Warden was already disappearing into the darkness, and the pirate wasn't entirely certain she wanted to cross blades with the woman.  _Moves faster than a bloody Qunari_ , Isabela thought to herself, before she turned to the gaggle at the edge of the clearing. "Oy," she barked. "If you all want to eat tonight, you'll set up a spit over the firepit, while there's still moonlight."

It gave the once-and-hopefully-future-captain a deeper thrill than she could admit to watch the Hawkes and Merrill snap-to and fall to her command; soon enough, the woods were filled with the heady smell of open-roasting venison. At first, Isabela thought it was a shame that a whole deer had to die to feed them, since they couldn't possibly finish the whole beast in an entire night. But the Wardens proved her wrong, both of them eating easily more than even Carver, and the carcass was little more than bones before the group decided to shut in for the night.

Bethany didn't protest when Isabela crawled into the tent after her, and Carver was too busy setting up his own canvas to notice. "Even pirates need to sleep," Isabela said in her defence, once Bethany gave her a questioning look. "Although hopefully not for a few hours, yet…"

The human Warden's lips curled into a muted smile. "I missed you, 'Bela," she admitted in a low voice, moving to sit at one end of the tent. Her blade-ended staff was tucked carefully beneath an oilcloth. "I'm glad you came."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves ," the pirate retorted, her eyes straining in the low light. "And I was right...you look better with longer hair, Beth."

The other woman breathed a chuckle, and shifted, beginning to remove her armour. "I doubt I'll get any sleep at all," she lamented. "The Commander will expect us to be ready to move at first light."

Rather than answer verbally, Isabela leaned forward, intent on discovering whether or not the other woman still tasted of sunshine.

She did, it turned out. And she was right about them not getting an ounce of sleep, to boot.

About the time of the first larks' calls, Athadra barked at them all to get their arses moving if they wanted to reach the ruins before dark. Isabela readjusted her bodice as she made her way out of Bethany's tent, stifling a yawn from the night's exertions.

"By the Maker's soggy smallclothes ," Carver swore through his own yawn, but he had no more comment as he set to work breaking down his tent with Merrill.

Isabela didn't know how Athadra knew the way to the ruin, but she didn't feel like bridging the frosty distance between the two elves enough to find out. The Warden's threatening pose to Carver still seemed to rankle Merrill, and the pirate had little desire to stoke that particular fire, so she pushed through the rough country in between the twins. Athadra forged ahead of them, using her longswords to cut through the brush when it grew too thick, and Bethany and Carver helped to widen the trail with their own weapons.

By the middle of the afternoon, Merrill piped up that the country seemed familiar. "Good," Athadra replied. "Beth and I scouted the temple a couple of days ago, but we didn't go inside yet. There were a couple of 'spawn outside, though, so you civilians need to stay back."

Bethany apparently needed no command to move up beside her fellow Warden; as tired as she was, the human mage held her staff at the ready as the ground levelled out. A few ancient stone pillars loomed amongst the greenery in the distance, and Isabla caught sight and smell of a few darkspawn corpses that nearly turned her stomach, but she kept three paces behind the two Grey Wardens as they neared the temple's entrance.

"Looks a lot like the temple I found in the Brecilian Forest," Athadra commented, when the crumbling doors parted to reveal a staircase leading beneath the ground. "It were Elvhen, but subterranean, too."

"Really?" Merrill breathed, evidently forgetting that she wasn't speaking to the other elf. "What did you find inside?"

"A dragon," the Warden shot back. "A young one, though, so it weren't too hard to bring down…and a whole pack of werewolves. It's a bit of a long story." Then Athadra jostled Bethany. "You feel that?"

The human mage tilted her head, clearly considering, but after a few moments she nodded. "Is that...an Alpha? Two levels down, I think."

"Very good," the elf confirmed, and Isabela felt a small flush of sympathetic pride that Bethany had passed the impromptu test. "What kind of Alpha?"

A much longer pause followed. "I'm...not sure," Bethany admitted, her voice nearly as small as Isabela remembered from the days before she'd set off underground. "I'll have to get closer."

"No, you won't," Athadra replied coolly. "You know what to do."

The other Warden hesitated, casting a concerned look back to the visitors. Those brown eyes settled on her brother, and she bit her lip. "You might want to look away," Bethany cautioned.

Athadra's eyes were steel as they regarded the male Hawke. "It ain't anything he hasn't seen before," she insisted. "Do it." There wasn't any room in the Warden's tone for further dallying.

With a steadying breath, Bethany turned back to the staircase and took up one of the two daggers she now wore at her hips. Carver tried to ask what she was doing, but before he could get three words out, the mage was drawing the dagger across her naked palm. "It's a genlock," Bethany pronounced. "There are...twenty-two grunts along with it ."

Isabela had only a moment to be impressed at the trick before Carver took a hasty step forward. "What...what was that, Beth?!"

The question made the woman wince, but Athadra turned to fully face the advancing Hawke. "What do you think it were?"

"It was blood magic," Merrill proclaimed, though she sounded slightly awed rather than upset. "I had no idea that you could use it like that!"

"I had no idea my sister could use it at all," Carver rebutted sharply. "Explain yourself, Beth," he demanded. "You know how much Father warned you and Cethlenn against it."

Merrill looked confused, but before she could put voice to any concern, Bethany wheeled around. "Maybe if he hadn't, Ceth would still be alive," she exclaimed hotly. Blood still dripped through her fingers onto the leaves at her feet.

Carver's face flushed. "That's...not fair, Beth. You know that wasn't your fault...it's no reason to turn your back on what he taught us."

The Dalish elf pounced into the gap. "What are you saying, Carver? That...that you're upset about this?"

Nearly all of the colour drained from the male Hawke's cheeks. "I…" he ventured, looking from the elf at his side to the human in front of him. "I mean, Bethany always believed in Andraste. Using blood magic is forbidden in the Chant, you know that."

"It ain't, actually," Athadra spoke up. "Not that I'd have held back from teaching Beth even if that were so."

Carver took another step forward. "It's your fault, then!"

Bethany tried to put her uninjured hand on her brother's shoulder, but Athadra smacked it back. "Bethany's a mage under my command," she pointed out. "She ain't a Hawke anymore...if I had a mind, I could tell her to gut you where you stood, and she might. I certainly will, if you don't shut up in the next ten seconds." The Commander did not move for any of her very many weapons, but the threat was no less palpable for her stillness.

"You're one to talk," Merrill hissed, though surprisingly her comment was directed at the back of Carver's head. "All those hours we've spent practicing- "

"What?" Isabela, Bethany, and Athadra voiced nearly all at once. Carver wheeled around, trying to shush the Dalish elf, but she would not be silenced.

"I've been teaching Carver how to use his blood for nearly a year," Merrill boasted. "He took a dragon-blood potion that gave him a touch of the gift, and I helped him focus it."

The silence in the valley was broken only by the call of a crow in the distance, until Athadra let out a long breath. "Why didn't I ever think of using dragon's blood?" She wondered. "Were it a High Dragon ?"

Bethany and Merrill both looked too furious to speak, and Isabela was far too curious to risk diverting attention to herself, so Carver was forced to contend with the Commander's question. "...no," he said at last. "At least Tobrius said it wasn't." He rubbed his neck, like a child might, and looked down at his boots. "I'm...sorry I took it badly. I've got no right to judge, Beth."

Something caused both of the Wardens to blink, and they turned as one to the dark stairwell. "We've got company," Athadra announced. "You all stay back...and we'll talk later," she promised.

"We certainly will," Bethany insisted, and at the elven Warden's nod, she took the lead down the stairs and into the temple proper .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to the awesome beta-reading of clafount from ff.net, and also thanks to anyone who's read and enjoyed this story. I think I'll start posting chapters every day, since my buffer's so great. Hopefully I run out of story before I run out of buffer!


	28. Picking Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that he's safely back in Kirkwall, Carver must deal with the consequences of his poor choice of words back in Ferelden. His confrontation with Merrill turns out rather differently than either of them were expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter definitely helps BoP earn its 'M' rating, so beware.

 

The sun had set on the Alienage streets an hour before, and though he was on good terms with the  _hahren_ , Carver didn't like being here alone. He shouldn't have to be here at all, he knew; if it weren't for his foolish tongue, Merrill probably would have kept meeting him in the Hanged Man or by the docks of an evening. But he hadn't seen a glimpse of her since she stole off of the boat from Highever, more than a month before .

A third, less tentative round of knocking didn't seem to give him any more satisfaction than his first two attempts, and the warrior considered stalking away and sulking in the Hanged Man. Assuming he wouldn't get shanked on the way back through the ghetto's alleys, of course. "I said I was sorry," he complained loudly against the door. "Look, I know you're in there," Carver said, and he did; he could hear her heartbeat, when he closed his eyes and concentrated, a pulse just out-of-time with his own . "Just...can we please talk about this?"

Nearly a full minute passed, and the human was on the verge of turning his back on the door and taking his chances in the alleyway when the elaborate lock began shifting. Silently, Carver thanked Isabela's generosity in helping to secure Merrill's hovel-it contained powerful artifacts of magic, which could cause a world of trouble if they were stolen by the wrong people, as well as the former First's other worldly possessions.

"What do you want, Hawke?" Merrill demanded, and Carver tried not to flinch away from the appellation. It stung him even worse than Varric's near-constant refrain of  _Junior_ , at least from Merrill's lips.

He couldn't resist the flinch when he saw how haggard the elf looked, with sallow cheeks and purple bruising beneath those intricate facial tattoos. "Maker," he sighed. "What happened to you?"

Her brows knitted. "That's none of your business," Merrill exclaimed. "You say you want to talk, so talk. I've not got all night."

"Can I come in, at least?" Carver tried plying her with a hopeful smile, but it died at her withering look. Nevertheless, Merrill pulled back from the doorway and jerked her head for him to enter.

Deep shadows covered the room, thicker than the human remembered. Even after closing his eyes for half a dozen heartbeats, it was still hard to see his way around. Merrill, for her part, picked her way over the messy room with an ease and grace he'd come to expect of her. Habit borne of his days as a mercenary saw Carver double-check the locked door, but once he was sure it was secure, he did his best to follow the elf back into her room.

Where the  _el'u'vi'an_  stood more-or-less complete in its frame. Just a few gaps remained, and the joined pieces still showed thousands of veiny cracks that ruined any prospective reflection, but the mirror's majesty was unmistakable. "Have you been working on this day and night? For this whole month?" They'd fetched back the newly-cleansed shards from Ferelden in the opening days of Guardian, and it was just now the first week of Drakonis .

The woman threw him a suspicious look. "Yes," she admitted. "You can't understand how important this is for me," Merrill said, all in a rush. "For my people. Even if they don't want it...we  _need_  this."

"I don't understand," Carver conceded. "But I want to...honestly." He moved to take a step closer to the mirror, but Merrill's hand shot out, gripping his elbow with surprising strength. He saw a fresh network of scars along her forearm.

"It isn't safe for you to approach it," the elf insisted. "I don't want to lose you, too."

The proclamation turned Carver's mouth into a desert, though not out of fear of the mirror. "You were...close, with Tamlen, right?"

"We were," Merrill affirmed. "Not...not like…" She trailed off, then, and awkwardly pulled her hand back from the warrior. "I don't have any food or anything, but there is some clean water, if you want some."

"I'll survive," Carver assured her, his lips tipping into a frown. He wasn't sure how to handle the sudden appearance of Merrill's old friend into the conversation, an elf who'd evidently been a victim of the mirror while it was still corrupted by the darkspawn taint, and so the human tried to change the subject. "I really  _am_  sorry, Merrill," he reiterated, tilting his head to get a better look at her face. "You know I didn't mean-"

"What, that you can't stand having a filthy blood mage for a sister?" Merrill broke in, her forest-green eyes flashing dangerously. "It seemed pretty clear to me, Carver."

"That's not fair," the warrior retorted. "Bethany isn't...she wasn't like you-and me," he amended, hastily. "She didn't used to think that Andraste was just a story, I mean. My sisters were apostates, but we all followed the Chant of Light." He grimaced, looking away. "It was just...a shock, to learn that she doesn't, anymore."

"You don't know that," the elf pointed out. "Athadra herself pointed out that there's nothing against blood magic _per se_  in the human religion."

Carver swallowed a cynical chuckle. "That's how it's taught, though. Even Father taught us that blood magic was evil...and I guess he should know, since he had first-hand experience." He shook his head. "I just...I've come to terms with my own damnation. Either the Maker exists and I'm not worthy of Him, or He doesn't, and it doesn't matter either way."

Merrill perched herself lightly on the edge of her cot, stifling a yawn. "You aren't damned, Carver," she whispered, casting a glance toward the unfinished mirror. "You're a good man. Too good." She drew herself up with a deep breath, and despite the exhaustion etched on every inch of her face, the elf gave him a bittersweet smile. "You've done more to help me than I ever thought any  _shem'len_  would, but your part in this is done. You should go home, Carver."

The warrior did not look away, even as the sight of that tired smile seemed to shake the ground beneath his feet. "Is that what you want?" He asked, suddenly wishing he'd taken up her offer of water. "For me to go?" He got the feeling that if he followed her advice, he'd never see her again.

Silence hung in the air for a long moment, even after Merrill's eyes found the dingy floor. "...No," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "But I've already stolen your stories from you, helped you do things you're ashamed of," she reasoned. "Being my friend hasn't done anything good for you ."

"Is that what you think?" Carver's laugh was a barked huff. "You're the only real friend I have in this Void-taken city...I mean, Varric's alright, I guess."

"What about Isabela?" Merrill countered, her brows knitting. "She came with us to Ferelden, after all."

The warrior rolled his eyes. "She came with  _you_  to Ferelden...and then she shacked up with Beth, and then Beth and Athadra both, after we got the damned glass out of that temple." The memory of being underground amidst more darkspawn was enough to make him shiver...even though the two Wardens had slaughtered each and every one of them. Bethany had certainly lost any timidity for fighting in the months since she'd been taken from him, and she'd collected a worrying number of ways to kill things in the interim . Shaking the thought off, Carver pressed on. "I like them," he admitted. "Isabela and Varric...but they aren't you."

Merrill still couldn't meet his gaze. "And who am I to you, Carver? What do you really want?"

"I want...I don't know," he exclaimed. "I've already told you that I care about you, more than I can remember caring about anyone, before. And if you just want to be friends-"

"You say that like it's a common thing," the elf breathed. "Something you can throw away at a lark." Her eyes filled with pools of light in the dim room, but Carver thought they looked wet, even so. "I've never had any friends. Only my duty ."

Without knowing why, Carver took two steps toward her, and then he sunk to his knees to keep from looming over the elf. "I'm your friend, Merrill," he insisted. "That means I don't want to take anything away from you, or make you give up anything you care about. I promise." He gave the nearly-finished mirror a long look. "I want to help you reclaim your history, and I want you to be safe." When the warrior looked at her again, he was stricken once more by how pale and drawn she was. "...When was the last time you ate, Merrill?"

The incongruity of the question must have thrown the elf for a loop, because she blinked several times, and took a long time to consider. "I...think I ate a bit of stew last week," Merrill mumbled. "I've been getting by on magic, mostly…" She had the presence of mind to look a bit sheepish, at least.

Shaking his head, Carver took one of Merrill's hands in both of his and moved to stand. "Come on...you've been pushing yourself too hard. Let's take you out to the Hanged Man and get you some more stew." When the elf looked to protest, the warrior shook his head. "You won't be able to finish the mirror at all if you die of starvation ," he pointed out. "And I'll...I'll help, afterward. You can use some of my blood."

The promise drew Merrill to her feet at last. "...Really?" She looked too scared to hope, but when Carver nodded, she threw her arms around him and nearly collapsed from exhaustion. "I'm...I don't know what to say," she mumbled into his shirt.

"Don't say anything," he breathed against the crown of her head, his thick arms crossing behind her shoulderblades. "Just come with me and eat. The dwarf's been missing you, too." Carver tried to ignore the thud of his heart at having her so close, and he shifted to tuck her into his side, ostensibly to keep her from stumbling...even though he stumbled plenty in his own right, through the dim maze of Merrill's home.

The walk through the moonlit Alienage and Lowtown beyond was blessedly free of bandits, whether through Carver's reputation or sheer luck, and the Hanged Man's barroom was just as warm as ever, filled with boisterous patrons and lit by hanging braziers. The warrior marched his companion through the crowd, up the short flight of stairs to Varric's room; the door was open, as it nearly always was when the dwarf was in residence.

"Daisy!" Varric guffawed, looking up from his table, which held an intimidating spread of dwarven business documents. The beardless dwarf shuffled the parchment into a neat pile with surprising quickness, and placed an empty ale tankard onto the folded papers to keep them in place. "It's been awhile. What's the occasion?"

Carver's arm was still strewn over Merrill's shoulders, and somehow on the way, her own arm had slipped around his spine, just beneath his shoulderblades. Neither of them seemed willing to surrender the embrace before the other. "Junior says I have to eat something," the elf lamented, though a bit of mischief glinted in her eyes as she looked up to the warrior.

"And I can't cook anything more complicated than toast," he pointed out, holding up his free hand. "Still manage to ruin that about half the time, too...so, you hungry, dwarf?"

Varric sat back, scratching his stubble. "I guess I could eat," he mused, letting his eyes linger on the joint of Carver's shoulder. "What are we having?" When neither of his two guests made any suggestions, or indeed appeared to move at all, Varric heaved a sigh. "Fine. I'll make sure Corff doesn't piss in the soup," he complained, climbing out of his chair and mumbling something Carver could have sworn sounded like  _at least not my soup_. "Don't touch anything," the dwarf warned them. "But siddown. I'll be back shortly."

Eventually the warrior and the mage drew apart and took seats around Varric's great round table, and they reminisced about the last time they'd sat down here while they waited. It had been about eight months since the dwarf had orchestrated the Hawkes' unexpected nameday party; at once, it seemed like only yesterday, and a whole different lifetime entirely. Bethany was still around; they had no money; neither of them had seen the true horrors of the darkspawn, and at least one of them had never succumbed to the temptation of blood magic.

Varric's return kept Carver from growing maudlin, and soon enough the dwarf had Merrill enrapt in a story about an elven princess and a Tevinter magister who'd fallen in love in the middle of the ancient conflict between their peoples . Eventually the two had to choose between love and hate, between duty and joy ...but it got too late before he could finish the tale. "I guess you'll have to come back tomorrow night to hear what they decided," the dwarf gruffed, though his lips held a smirk.

"I suppose I'll have to," Merrill admitted. She looked much improved by the bar's meagre fare; a bit of pink had returned to her cheeks, underneath the ink that marked her as an adult amongst her people, and her eyes shone with excitement for the first time Carver had seen since the temple. Since his own foolishness had nearly ruined their friendship .

The night air had grown oddly cool, despite the time of year and the nearby foundry that kept the sky afire. Carver took up position beside Merrill as they stalked away from the Hanged Man. "I didn't bring my twine," the elf lamented with a half-hearted sigh, just before they reached an alleyway where they might have parted ways. "Though I don't get lost at night nearly as often as during the day… "

"I'll walk you back," the warrior offered; his heart sat at the bottom of his throat as he wordlessly extended his hand, and his stomach tightened when the mage's fingers laced through his own. Merrill's grip was surprisingly strong.

"That would be lovely," she breathed, and together they crossed the alley to the wider path that would take them to the Alienage.

Carver didn't trust himself to speak, though he silently thanked the Maker that no bandits crossed their path. Luck remained with them at the Alienage gates as well, for the city guard hadn't yet closed them for the eve. He thought he recognized Donnic standing stoically at the top of the stairs, but it was hard to tell beneath the helmet, and the warrior didn't pause to investigate.

Merrill's home was pitch black inside, at least to his human eyes, yet the elf's grip did not falter as she guided him back to her bedroom, where the  _el'u'vi'an_  stood waiting for their attention. A candelabra sparked to life once they reached the chamber, burning more brightly than the noonday sun for just an instant-in that instant, Carver thought he saw something deep within the unfinished mirror, something dark and sinister, but it was gone after a blink . His brows drew down and his lips parted to mention it, but Merrill spoke up before he could form any words.

"Thank you, Carver," the elf said, just above a whisper. "It was good to get out of the house again…"

He turned his head to look at her, his eyes catching the light dancing across her inked cheeks. Warmth seeped into him at the sight of her tentative smile, and from her hand, still wrapped up in his. "Thank you for letting me in," he answered, after a breath. Neither he nor Merrill moved beyond the bedroom's entryway, rooted to the dusty floorboards. "I really like spending time with you, Merrill."

That set the elf's brows to knitting, and she cast her eyes down. "I've...not been a very good friend, especially this last month," she admitted. "And I never did answer you, before...when you wondered if I wanted to start the  _vi'lath_  with you…"

"That's okay," Carver assured her, somehow managing to speak through the lump in his throat. "Being your friend is...more than I have a right to hope for." Which was perfectly true, as far as it went. The fingers of his free hand brushed her cheek, coaxing her to look up at him. "Merrill, it's alright…"

Merrill's forest-green eyes flashed decisively, and before Carver could sort out just what she'd decided, the mage arched up to claim his lips in an awkward kiss. Shock flooded through his chest, keeping the warrior from responding immediately, but the warmth of his affection overrode his hesitation before the elf could mistake it for rejection. A memory from Lothering lanced through the back of Carver's mind, though, embarrassing enough to dampen the furious pounding of his heart . Carefully, he wrapped his fingers around Merrill's shoulders and held her in check just enough to pull a few inches from her still lips. "Merrill," he panted, licking over his lips and doing his best to hold her gaze. "Are you sure you want...this? Us?"

A bit of suspicion tinged the edge of her features. "Do you?"

"Maker, yes," the warrior replied. "But...but only if you do," he amended, uncertainly. "I don't want to make you do anything you'll regret."

"You haven't," Merrill said, dismissively. Her thin, strong arms slid about his upper torso, one of her hands coming to rest at the nape of his neck. "You've been a better friend than I ever thought I'd have."

"Especially for a shem?" He managed a cocky smirk, even as his arms wrapped around the mage. Her only response was to hoist herself higher and claim his lips again, and he fell into the kiss without any further reticence. Despite the weight of Merrill's chainmail undertunic and leggings, Carver hoisted her off her feet with little effort, bringing her face level with his own.

Merrill's lips softened after a moment, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world when her legs hooked around his waist. Carver's head tilted as he consciously deepened the kiss, and he moved to sit heavily on Merrill's cot bed . She shifted in his lap, planting her knees to either side of his thighs and arching back slightly. "Have you ever...done anything like this before?" The elf asked, a hint of concern touching her brow, even as her cheeks flushed beneath the threats of her tattoo.

Carver thought his heart might explode his chest. "A few times," he admitted, fire racing along his bare shoulders, where Merrill's hands had settled. Unbidden, he recalled one of the scant visits he'd paid to the Blooming Rose, back in his mercenary days. "What about you?"

"No," Merrill breathed, though she didn't seem nearly as nervous as Carver had been in similar circumstances. "Not with anyone else, anyway," the elf continued, biting her lip.

The warrior couldn't resist arching up to smooth her lips with a brief kiss. "I meant what I said," he reiterated, even as her position on his lap and her hands on his arms did much to cloud his good intentions. "We don't have to... _do_...anything," he managed to say. "Unless you want to, that is," he amended a little hastily, lust nearly overpowering his caution.

The elf's eyelids slid closed as she took a breath, and more quickly than Carver could have guessed, she'd stripped off her tunic and was making short work of the chainmail shirt she wore beneath it. Taking that as answer enough, the warrior stripped off the sleeveless underpadding he'd taken to wearing as a shirt, and in the space of a breath, both he and Merrill were bare above the waist.

The vision before him was enough to steal Carver's breath. More ink graced Merrill's flesh beneath her collarbones, branches of a great tree that accentuated the elf's small breasts. The tattoo's branches joined into a thin trunk that swept down her abdomen, disappearing beneath the trousers and armour she still wore .

A glance up at her face let Carver see a hint of nerves, which nearly stole a laugh from him. His hands settled at her hips, his thumb idly grazing over one of the many scars that nettled over her flanks, and the warrior pressed a soft kiss to her breastbone. "I've never seen anyone more beautiful," he vowed in a low whisper.

Merrill's fingers knotted into his hair, and the warrior found his head getting pulled back. "Neither have I," she affirmed, her lips crashing down upon his to steal any reply he might have given. Her tongue was more insistent now, or perhaps more confident, and it was all Carver could do not to fall back onto the bed at her urging.

Instead, the warrior took firmer hold of Merrill's flanks and pushed up into her embrace, shifting to lay her gently on her back. Guided by instinct and his very brief experience, Carver visited the elf's neck with his lips and teeth, slowly forging a path down to the branches painted across her chest. He used the willowy trunk to guide him further, his thick fingers fumbling to loosen the leather, armour, and padding that Merrill still wore below her hips.

She looked at him curiously when he reared up, but Merrill didn't object when he tugged her leggings down, discarding them in a heavy heap near the articles already stripped away. The elf breathed a giggle when the warrior planted a kiss inside her thigh, just above the knee.

The designs criss-crossing her lower limbs didn't surprise Carver; he should have suspected that Merrill wouldn't limit herself to the facial markings her people took as rites of passage. But the warrior was soon distracted from such thoughts as he made his way farther up Merril's thighs, and she seemed to realise his intent, for her other leg slipped encouragingly around his shoulders and her breath started to come in shorter gasps.

Carver nuzzled the flesh where her thigh joined her hip, taking a long look up Merrill's body until their eyes met. Very deliberately, the warrior shifted just enough to bring his mouth over her core, keeping his gaze locked with hers. Her eyes narrowed suddenly when his tongue brushed lazily across her folds, and it was all he could do to maintain her stare as the taste of her essence mingled with her sudden cry of pleasure, setting his senses alight.

The warrior's palms grazed up the back of her thighs, coming to rest at the small of her back to give him more leverage, and his tongue delved deeper within her. Merrill's hands returned to his head, her legs crossing at his spine from over his shoulders, and she whispered a string of Dalish words that the human had no hope of comprehending. Carver nearly lost himself in the act, taking raw pleasure in his senses, and no small amount of pride in the reaction that his lips and tongue drew out from his companion.

He delved more deeply yet again, and Merrill arched beneath him, until his tongue brushed up against a thin barrier that kept his agile member from pushing any farther. Confused at first, another memory rose unbidden, of the first time he'd been so close to a girl, back in Lothering.  _That explains the blood_ , he thought to himself; that part of the memory served to tug at his own veins, there and then.

Carefully, Carver retraced his path up Merrill's belly and across her chest, until her legs wrapped around his hips. "I see you weren't lying about...you know," he panted, when they'd come face to face. Before her curiosity could turn to suspicion, the warrior licked his lips, shuddering at the renewed taste of her essence. "If you...want to keep going," he began, trying to keep the sheer hunger out of his voice, "then it might hurt a little bit...at least at first." Swallowing, he held her gaze as steadily as possible. "There'll be blood," Carver warned her, and he couldn't keep all of the longing from his voice, then.

"I know," Merrill insisted. Her nimble fingers were already working at the warrior's laces. "I'm looking forward to that last part, in fact ."

A sigh of relief took him when the confines of his trousers disappeared, but it turned into a shuddering gasp as the underside of his length pressed heavily on Merrill's core. "Me, too," Carver admitted breathlessly. Merrill's right hand planted itself upon his newly-exposed hip, while her left took possession of the nape of his neck, and Carver's body moved at her fingers' coaxing. Their lips met an instant before the elf's legs tightened, drawing him into her in a sudden rush. Pain blossomed sharply on Carver's tongue as she bit down, strangling her own pained cry, but the sensation was lost in the heat that surrounded him from her core. He  _sensed_  the blood that came before he smelled it, unable to resist the urge to lance deeper, encouraged as he was by Merrill's limbs tugging desperately at him.

Behind them, neither saw the shadows that shifted between the cracks of the half-completed mirror .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once more to clafount at ff.net for her excellent beta-reading skills!


	29. Longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany attends the Wardens' Day celebrations in Denerim with some of her colleagues, and Athadra gets a special request from an old friend and a former enemy.

 

The parade actually started well before Denerim; the Commander and Oghren rode a pair of enormous black horses bedecked with Warden emblems, the fighters resplendent in heavy arms and armour. The healer, Friga , canted to the Commander's left in a smaller chestnut mare, her armoured robes similar to Bethany's. Bethany herself rode in the second rank with the rest of the Fereldan Wardens, those who'd been called to service after the end of the Blight. They'd rode that way for more than two days, all the way from Redcliffe.

But now the Wardens rode at the head of an impromptu column of men and women, ahorse and afoot, some of whom had begun following them as early as Lothering. The Commander had given the recently-knighted Valena the charge of organising these civilian hangers-on, some of whom had fought just as bravely as the Wardens in defence of their capitol city, more than two years before. Bethany was too far behind her Commander to hear the words that the elf shared with her two fellow Senior Wardens, but the occasional chuckle that trickled back to the rest of them let the human mage know that spirits were quite high indeed.

As the sun rose bloodily in front of them, the Wardens and their followers crested the final hill on the West Road, and Bethany got her first glimpse at Denerim's gates and walls. In truth, it wasn't nearly as impressive or intimidating as her first foray into Kirkwall had been, but the mage still sat in awe of the centre of Fereldan politics and culture. The city had endured, and from afar it looked majestic enough to have been Andraste's birthplace.

The Commander drew to a halt at the very beginning of the slope down to the city's gates. Slowly the dozens of men and women following the Wardens caught up with them, spilling off of the confines of the West Road as the elf turned her crimson eyes on them. Backlit by the morning, Bethany couldn't help but give her Commander an admiring stare. The woman's wild, black hair was tied back, giving them all an unimpeded view of her melted right ear and the burns on her neck, courtesy of the Archdemon.

"Some of you have been here before," the Commander began, her battle-roughened voice bringing the crowd to silence. Her eyes scanned around. "Matthias," the elf called, nodding to a middle-aged man who appeared to lack an arm. "Ingerd," the Commander continued, indicating a young woman near the centre of the throng. She went on naming individuals and gesturing for them to step forward, until more than twenty Fereldan civilians had moved to the place of honour in the vanguard. Bethany could see that having their names acknowledged by the hard-bitten woman was higher praise than any of the veterans had been expecting.

"Of the thousands of us who stood firm to this spot, we few remain to bear witness," the Commander intoned. "Doubtless there are hundreds within the city behind me who also fought bravely, and many more who could not make it today...but too many of your sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers, daughters and sons were put to rest within Denerim's walls." The elf's head tilted for just a moment. "Let's not forget them ."

With that, the Commander of the Grey wheeled her horse around and took the lead, as she had done so readily before. Now separated from the Senior Wardens by the mass of honoured civilians, Bethany and her fellows picked their way down the West Road in silence. The sky was blessedly clear of clouds and dragons, yet the still-new Warden couldn't shake the sombre mood that her Commander's reflection had evoked. They'd been warned that King Alistair and Queen Anora planned to make the day a grand spectacle, a day of celebration, but Bethany was almost certain that the Commander and her two Senior Wardens would rather not have come at all.

Before the procession reached the gates, the massive doors swung outward, and Bethany heard the Chantry's bells ringing from within the city's high walls for the first time. Her attention was soon taken up by their welcoming party, however; a crowd easily thrice the Wardens' own was massed just within the walls, headed by none other than the nation's rulers. Unlike the Wardens, however, none of the royal party were on horseback.

The man who could be none other than King Alistair Theirin stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and the Commander with surprising agility, given the great weight his gilded armour must have burdened him with. His hair was golden as well, nearly down to his ears and kept from his eyes by a casual part down the centre. His chin and neck also had a smattering of straw, though his upper lip and cheeks were bare.

What struck Bethany most, however, was the tingle in her blood that his presence elicited . It was enough to tell her that he was indeed a Grey Warden in his own right, regardless of his crown. She strained her ears to try and catch his opening words to the Commander, but the mage only made out the elf's low growl, and then the king's full-bellied laugh.

"Psst," Faenathiel mumbled from Bethany's right. "Don't give yourself a stroke, shem. Wanna know what they're saying?"

Bethany arched a brow at the elven Warden beside her; since their inaugural trip through the Deep Roads and then their initiation into the Commander's ranks, they had grown a bit closer than either of them could claim to the others. "Sure, Fae," the mage answered, under her breath.

"Mostly it's boring," the elf informed her. "King made some crack about her nameday and getting older, and she threatened to show his wife his teeth, one at a time ." Faenathiel tilted her head toward the Commander. "Now he's telling her about the parade route. It'll take all fucking morning," she swore, and then laughed, a half-second after the Commander herself barked bitterly. "He said that they'd end at the Chantry," the elf explained.

Bethany shook her head, but when the Commander, Oghren, and Friga all dismounted, she did likewise. A few city guards came to collect the horses, and King Alistair busied himself with walking amongst the Denerim veterans that had followed the Wardens back to the battlefield. The Commander rounded on her troops, casting a sidelong glance at Faenathiel for a moment. "We're gonna walk through the city," she barked. "Everywhere that I went here to kill the sodding dragon...and then they want to go to the Chantry to sing their songs," she snorted, dismissively. "Try not to kill anyone ."

"Commander," the Wardens replied, nearly as one, and the elf so named turned back to take her position beside the king. Friga and Oghren were not long in following.

There must have been three hundred or more paraders who mingled just within Denerim's gates, and even more spectators peeking from the ditches or the windows of stone buildings. "Thank you," Bethany offered to Faenathiel, who'd elbowed her way beside the mage as they mingled with the marchers. "For helping me out a few minutes ago."

The elf shrugged. "Whatever. We gonna start this walk before the sun goes down?"

Bethany breathed a laugh and rolled her eyes. Just a few moments later, however, a surprised cry sounded from near the head of the still-forming column. The human mage couldn't see clearly through all of the bodies, but a wave of tension was soon rippling through the crowd.

Faenathiel elbowed the tall Ander Warden, Jarvik, who stood stoically nearby. "Big guy," the elf greeted him. "Can you see what's holding up the show?"

Jarvik inclined his head briefly and rose to the balls of his feet, which must have given him a clear line of sight. "Commander has taken arms," he announced in his thick accent. "Three templars stand between her and some mages." He sounded amused, rather than alarmed. "They will not stand for too long, I think."

Bethany took a steadying breath. "What is she doing? Trying to start a war?"

"The Commander has her reasons," came Stroud's leathery voice, from somewhere close behind her. Though he'd had more years as a Warden than half of the Fereldan corps put together, he had not faced down an Archdemon, and so he loitered in the middle of the crowd. "I believe she wishes to integrate the mages into the parade; they also fought bravely."

Faenathiel snickered. "Bet the sodding bucket-heads think they're doing them a favour just by letting them out of their prison." She eyed their tall companion. "Any news?"

"The king is now standing between the Commander and the templars, but the Commander is still armed," Jarvik reported. He didn't sound so amused, now . "Perhaps we should make our way forwards."

Stroud agreed, and so the four Wardens began picking their way past the mass of civilians. Nathaniel, Sigrun, and Monroi had remained behind in Redcliffe to oversee the teyrnir and tend to the not-insignificant threat of darkspawn that remained within it.

The distinctiveness of their armour gave Bethany's troop ample respect, so it took a scant few minutes for them to arrive where Friga and Oghren both waited. The two Senior Wardens seemed relieved for the reinforcements, but none of them spoke, all eyes fixed on the tense scene still unfolding a few yards away.

"I said," the Commander insisted through clenched teeth, "no tin-tops. They'll get to walk with us like proper warriors."

It couldn't have been the first time she'd repeated the phrase, for the evident leader of the templars rolled his eyes. His hair was more salt than pepper, and his face had seen better years, but he did not seem intimidated by the sword-wielding elf. "I have offered no offence," the templar insisted, "by following both canon and civil law. Surely you do not expect me and my lieutenants to drag all of you back to the tower?"

"Wait a moment," the king entreated, holding his hands out toward the two feuding parties. "Surely we can have some sort of compromise? Like...maybe let the mages go in front, with a few templars at their flanks?"

The greying templar chewed on the suggestion for a moment. "I would accept that," he allowed.

Athadra snorted. "I won't, Greagoir," she spat, and Bethany realised that the man she was threatening had to be the Knight-Commander of Ferelden. "They walk with me. You don't."

The man looked to sneer at her yet again, but a finely-dressed elf appeared seemingly from nowhere, right beside King Alistair. His presence must have come as no surprise to the man or his guards, for no one sent up an alarm. Bethany blinked, trying to get a better look at the stranger; he had smooth, nut-brown skin and gold-white hair trained back in a braided queue.

The elf's presence seemed to still the Commander's protests, and when Bethany saw his lips moving, she understood that he was speaking privately, even amidst the hundreds of onlookers. Another minute passed, but finally, the Commander growled and re-sheathed her longswords. "Fine," she grudged, shooting the knight-commander what must have been a scathing look. "You take them out in front. But the king and I will discuss this matter later," she vowed .

Bethany blinked, confused for a moment, for the dark-skinned elf had simply disappeared as easily as he'd shown up. Oghren grunted from two paces ahead of her. "Sodding Antivan always did cheer her up," the dwarf observed. "Bet he just earned himself one hell of a long night , though." He laughed lecherously, and kept laughing even when no one else joined in.

"Okay," King Alistair shouted, as the templars and mages arrayed themselves at the very front of the parade. "It looks like we're ready to begin!"

* * *

The afternoon sun seemed so much larger from atop Fort Drakon, though there was an unseasonal bite to the air, so high up. Athadra hadn't remembered feeling cold during that long fight up to this very plateau, two years before...but then again, she'd had to fight nearly every step of the way.

From this vantage, she could watch the parade move on, the great mass wending through streets of varying widths. She'd enjoyed marching with her fellows through the market square, and the Alienage, but she would not lead anyone back to the Chantry; rather than ask for permission, the Commander of the Grey had simply broken off from the king and her companions when they reached the fortress.

She knew better than to think she was alone, however. Her head tilted to the left almost imperceptibly, so that her good ear could fix on the slight scratching of a discreet footstep on the stone of the roof. "You can come out, Zev," Athadra allowed. "I willn't kill you...today."

The Antivan rogue stepped from a convenient shadow, wearing a smirk that didn't quite meet his eyes. "I have missed your threats of murder,  _querida_ ," he chuckled. "Nearly as much as I have missed you."

Athadra rounded on the man more fully, her eyebrow arched in suspicion. "I saw Isabela," she pronounced without preamble. "Couple of months ago."

By the practiced calm that stole over the Antivan's features, the Warden could tell that her diversion had worked. "...And?" He probed, after a handful of heartbeats.

"She's got herself situated," the Warden allowed. "Has some powerful friends." Athadra thought she might have detected a hint of relief shimmer just under the surface of Zevran's mask, but it was soon replaced by a lascivious grin.

"And?" He asked again, his eyes sparkling dangerously. "Was your reunion all that I could have dreamt of?"

The Warden rewarded him with a tight smile. "She lived," Athadra assured him. "I were careful ."

Zevran heaved a sigh, shaking his head. "One day soon, I should get you to give me a demonstration...but it must wait, I fear." Casually, the Antivan polished his fingernails on the fine cloth of his doublet, inspecting the results for a moment. "It is convenient that you have sought refuge from the crowd,  _querida_ ," he mentioned, with a quick glance to the doorway through which Athadra had come not half an hour before.

She was somehow not surprised when a pair of women filed through it, though neither of them brought a smirk to her lips. The red-haired woman gave the Warden a heartfelt grin. "It is very good to see you, Athadra!"

The elf inclined her head. " Leliana ," she acknowledged. "Your Majesty," Athadra allowed, with a bow to Leliana's taller companion. She glanced at Zevran, loitering near a shadow. "Meet me later."

"As you wish,  _querida_ ," the Antivan vowed, before he melted back into the walls.

Queen Anora stepped forward, holding onto her fine, green skirts to keep them from dragging on the dirty rooftop. "Commander," the queen called in greeting, plying the woman with a saccharine smile. "It is wonderful to see you at last. I hear your travels to the Anderfels were profitable?"

"They were," Athadra conceded , before she turned and stalked toward the edge of the roof, intent on tracking the parade's progress. "Is there a reason you wanted to see me, Majesty?" The fact that Leliana was with the woman was mildly intriguing, given the Orlesian's history with Alistair during the Blight.

He and Leliana had become friends, and then lovers, largely outside of Athadra's notice. Just before the Landsmeet that would see Alistair become acclaimed as the King of Ferelden, Athadra had suggested that he keep Leliana as a mistress.

Anora came up beside Athadra, seemingly fascinated by the far-distant sight of her husband, marching in front of the Wardens and behind the mages. They were nearly at the Chantry by then. "I love him," she said after a few moments. "It might sound like a calculation, but it's true." The queen sounded sad, all the same .

Athadra spared the monarch a crimson glance. "Does he not feel the same way?" She didn't even try to hide how little interest she had in the answer .

"No, he does," Anora insisted. "Yet…" The queen hesitated for the space of a breath, and then she took a step back. "Perhaps if you could explain, Leliana," she ventured. "It is...dismaying."

The queen's place on the wall was taken up by Leliana, garbed in sturdy though finely-cut clothes that she wasn't afraid to get a bit dirty, which she proved by resting her elbows on the stone. "What my queen cannot bring herself to say is that she has been unable to produce an heir for our king."

Athadra wondered if the  _our_  in  _our king_  referred to herself and Leliana, or to Leliana and Anora, but she did not seek to clarify. "That ain't surprising," she said, dismissively. "Wardens hardly ever have children. It ain't Anora's fault."

"I had heard much the same, from my own inquiries into the subject," Leliana affirmed. "Yet I have also heard of certain magics that might be used to counteract such a deficiency," she said airily, looking out into the pale blue sky.

The Warden remained silent for a few heartbeats. "From where did you hear this?"

The queen spoke up, from behind them. "Does that really matter?"

"If either of you want to walk out of this tower alive," Athadra replied evenly, not bothering to look back at Anora, "it does ." She had her own secrets to keep, and she did not trust either of them, no matter how close they were to Alistair.

Leliana tried to cover the awkwardness with a laugh. "Worry not," she insisted. "Alistair would probably disapprove of my spying on you, in any case." The Orlesian shook her head. "Shortly after the Rebellion, the Fereldan Circle of Magi helped to develop some magics to counteract the taint. From some very reliable sources in the Circle, I have ascertained that a female Grey Warden, well into her service, conceived and delivered a healthy child while under the influence of these magics ."

Surprise rose within Athadra; she'd spoken to the First Warden himself many times, but never had she learnt of that sort of research. Avernus would be curious to learn more, certainly. "I had no idea such a thing were possible," she admitted. "Do you want me to find someone who can do that kind of spellwork on Alistair?" She doubted that the king would accept drinking a modified concoction of her blood to achieve the same ends.

"No," Leliana replied, with a regretful sigh. "We have already done so, in fact...but we have had no luck." Athadra heard a small sob come from behind them, but she didn't turn away from the sight of the city, and so Leliana continued. "My queen has suffered...injury, during her marriage with King Cailan."

The Warden fixed the Orlesian with a skeptical look. "What kind of injury?" She'd never been particularly fond of the man, having met him only once before his own gallantry got him killed and got her and Alistair outlawed.

A grimace of distaste danced over Leliana's lips. "You already know of his penchant for...dallying," the Orlesian said. "From what we can piece together, one of these dalliances had an unintended consequence...perhaps even his first encounter." At the Warden's nod, Leliana cast a sympathetic glance to Anora before continuing. "I believe that in Ferelden, it's called 'the Orlesian disease', though it is not called so in Orlais."

"Syphilis," Athadra supplied, looking from the orange-haired woman to the queen and back again. "You're saying that he carried this back to Anora?" The other woman still wept, more or less silently.

"It is quite likely," Leliana confirmed. "Of course, Anora sought out a healer when the symptoms became too much to ignore, but...by that time, the damage was too extensive to correct for, even after the disease was purged ."

"Ahh," the Warden hummed, turning to face Anora head-on. "So your former husband made you barren before he went off and got himself killed, and your new husband needs an heir to continue his legacy," she summed up. Anora nodded, evidently not trusting herself to speak. "Knowing Alistair, he probably don't care about having an heir, but the bastards in the Landsmeet will want one, or they'll take to squabbling over which one of them should rule instead."

"That is very astute of you, Commander," the queen managed to say, her lips curling into something approaching an approving smile, though her cheeks were still wet.

Athadra shrugged. "I learned a little bit about politics in Weisshaupt...what I couldn't pick up during the Blight, anyway." She looked at the Orlesian, who'd followed her all over and under Ferelden on the mad quest to fell the Archdemon. "What do you want from me, then? Can't Alistair get a babe on you, or some other lass?"

Leliana took a deep breath and shook her head. "Any child of Alistair's and mine would not resemble Anora enough to pass off as her own, even if we could convince the Landsmeet that she and I had both quit the capitol for the duration of her pregnancy...and the king has refused to find a more likely candidate." She did not seem entirely displeased by that latter fact, however.

The queen took a step forward, until the three stood at equal distances from one another. "Yet we may have a...solution, if Leliana's suspicions are correct."

Nonplussed, the Warden could not immediately grasp Anora's meaning, but the apologetic look on Leliana's face caused the pieces to fall into place with painful rapidity. Athadra's throat dried and she thumbed semi-consciously at the ring she wore; her lobstered gauntlets only covered the backs of her hands and fingers, which left her thumbpad free to graze along the warm, worn pewter. "Morrigan," she breathed, unable to remember the last time she'd said the name aloud.

"Indeed," Leliana affirmed with a little nod. "You never specified the nature of the ritual that saved your life, but it is not a long stretch to suppose that a child might have been conceived."

Athadra leaned heavily back against the stone wall at the edge of the roof, grateful for her low centre of balance. "Did I threaten to kill you if you ever spoke of that night?" She wondered aloud, as though trying to remember where she'd put a pair of sandals.

The Orlesian rewarded the veiled threat with a giggle. "It must have slipped your mind, Athadra," she observed. "Alistair did intimate that he would be displeased, but...he does not need to know."

"Neither does anyone else," Queen Anora asserted, her voice perfectly level once more. "While I do not approve of your subterfuge with my husband, I can appreciate it. Not telling him that he would create a child was brilliant."

Leliana's brows twitched at Anora's possessiveness, but she was evidently too tactful to openly bridle beneath the presumption; the queen wasn't wrong, after all. "You must tell us whether or not our supposition is correct," she insisted. "It could mean the difference between civil war and continued peace."

Athadra blinked, her thoughts racing. Morrigan was a weakness that she hadn't been able to ignore, and yet she'd refrained from squandering her limited resources in tracking down the witch, as much as she yearned to see her again. "You mean to make Morrigan's daughter Alistair's heir?" The thought struck her as equally fitting and ridiculous, at once.

Anora's eyes lit up with triumph, though something darker lurked within their depths...jealousy, perhaps. Alistair had lain with Morrigan after his betrothal to the queen, after all, even if doing so had likely saved his life. "So the Witch of the Wilds did bear a child from their union?"

"She said that were the aim," Athadra confirmed, drawing herself back onto her feet. "And if I know her at all, she'll have had a daughter by now." Of course, she couldn't be certain that the prospective infant was a girl, but knowing what she knew of Flemeth and Morrigan, it was a reasonable guess. The Warden omitted that the child was supposed to have the soul of the Old God Urthemiel, whose draconic form had been corrupted to give rise to the Archdemon. Some things were better left unsaid, especially in front of civilians. "Do you mean to find her?" She directed the question to Leliana, and she tried to school her face to hide the yearning which threatened to show on it.

"I do," the Orlesian asserted. "The fate of the nation, perhaps of the whole of Thedas, depends upon it."

The Warden gave a single nod. "I should be the one to approach her, if you can manage to track her down," she said. "She'd likely kill you or anyone else you sent to fetch her."

"I agree," Leliana concurred, and her relief seemed genuine. "I promise that you shall be the first to know of Morrigan's whereabouts."

"Good," Athadra replied. "Now, both of you have a victory to celebrate."

Queen Anora stepped aside as the Warden moved past her. "Where will you go , Commander? If not to the celebrations?"

The elf paused near the door, throwing the monarch a backward glance. "You don't want to know, Your Majesty ."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to clafount at fanfiction.net for her awesome beta-reading! And to everyone who's read and enjoyed BoP so far!


	30. Sleepwalking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders wants to flee, but has a change of heart, and gets roped into helping another troubled mage on the outskirts of Kirkwall.

 

"Trash," muttered the renegade mage, tossing the amulet into the steadily-growing discard pile. "Keep," he pronounced, sorting his father's ring into the other, much smaller collection. His hands shook; he hadn't slept in three days, or perhaps more. It was surprising how many trinkets he'd collected during his tenure as a volunteer healer in the slums of Kirkwall, but most of them came from grateful patients or their families. It would sadden him to have to abandon most of them, but he'd already delayed too long-surely the templars would break through the door any minute, if he didn't flee now. He'd killed so many of them, after all, even if he'd only wanted to kill one. The door creaked open behind him, and Anders reacted instantly, snatching up his stave and spinning around on the intruders.

Varric leveled Bianca right at the mage's throat. "Easy there, Blondie," the dwarf cooed. "We're just coming to check up on you."

The magic coursing through Anders' skin calmed somewhat, and the blue tinge to his vision dimmed, though it did not entirely disperse. "You should not be here," he spat, glancing from the dwarf to Merrill and Carver, who stepped into the clinic after him. "You were all there. You saw what I did."

"You killed a lot of bloody templars," Carver pronounced. "And then you ran off before we found the note you were looking for."

Anders grimaced. "You're forgetting the scared girl that I nearly killed."

Merrill took a step forward, her face oddly determined. "That was the spirit within you, Anders," she insisted. "And we managed to get it to back down."

"You should know," the renegade mage snapped, turning his back on them all.

A moment passed before Merrill's voice sounded once more, a bit more hesitantly this time. "You think that because you don't call Justice a demon, that it's safe," she intoned. "But it's a spirit...and all spirits are dangerous, Anders. I thought you knew that ."

Anders had no ready answer, shame and annoyance mingling, and so he held his tongue until a stray thought struck him. "You mentioned a note?" He called, still looking at the clinic's back wall.

"Here," Carver supplied, stepping forward. Anders could hardly look at him when the renegade mage turned to retrieve the tattered parchment.

On it, he read that Ser Alrik's plan to Tranquilise all mages in Kirkwall had been considered by Grand Cleric Elthina and the Divine in Orlais...and rejected. He felt like he'd taken a knee to the stomach. "So...all those templars died for nothing? The grand cleric rejected the idea? The Divine...rejected the idea?"

Merrill snorted. "You didn't hear what that bald-headed templar was mumbling, threatening to turn the girl Tranquil, just before we showed up. It...sounded like he didn't care what his note said."

The renegade mage frowned. "I should still leave," he insisted. "I've proven myself a danger to innocents...and what's more, a danger to the cause of mages."

Varric breathed a chuckle. "If you disappear on us, Blondie, who's going to keep you from going all blue-skinned on the wrong person next time?" He chewed on his toothpick for a moment. "And where would I get my stories about the Warden, then, hmm?"

Carver spoke up again, looking around the dingy space. "You've done some real good here, especially for Fereldans. And we didn't leave any witnesses, other than the girl...so there's no reason you shouldn't stay."

Anders drew in a breath, glancing at the items he'd been prepared to abandon. A wooden horse caught his eye, gratefully offered by a child after he'd saved the boy's life a couple of years previously. Suddenly, the thought of leaving it behind made the mage feel sick . "Alright," he conceded. "I'll stay...but I warn you, my anger is getting harder to control every day. The sight of templars roaming free makes my spirit burn."

"We've got just the thing," Varric offered. "A nice trip out of the city; we shouldn't see any templars where we're going."

Suspicion reared up, bred from fending off the Coterie and the templars both since he'd come to stay in Darktown. "...What's the catch?" Anders wondered aloud, a hint of his old smirk returning to his lips.

A moment of silence passed in which Merrill and Carver shared a significant look, and the warrior was evidently tasked with explaining. "There's...something that we need from the Dalish Keeper, Marethari."

Merrill shook her head. "She won't want to give it to me, so we'll have to do something for her in return for borrowing it. It...might be dangerous," she admitted. "We could use your help."

The human mage considered his options. He would be needed here, in Darktown, to help mend the ills of the poor...yet he'd considered abandoning that duty entirely, and all of his other designs, just a few minutes before. "I suppose it won't kill me to see the sunshine for a day or two," Anders finally pronounced, moving to shoulder his stave.

Varric turned on his heel and readied Bianca; the dwarf never let himself go unarmed whenever he set foot in Darktown, even though he was on good terms with most of the gangs that ran the place. "Good to hear," he gruffed. "Now let's get a move on."

It took them more than an hour to climb out of the city and set upon the path to Sundermount. "So...we're going to the Dalish encampment," Anders mused, once they'd reached the dusty road and left Kirkwall's gates behind. "Have they remained in the same place since you arrived, Merrill?"

"Yes, though I have no idea why," Merrill replied. "Maybe because I...because they lost their halla," she ventured. "But it's been years, now. Surely the Keeper could have gotten another herd."

Carver barked a laugh. "They're probably waiting for you to see the error of your ways and run back to them. They can't be too happy with a half-human for a First ."

Anders caught the surprised look that took hold of Merrill's features, and he couldn't help but smirk again when her cheeks pinked. "I...guess that's true," the elf conceded. "I hadn't really thought about it for a while. I'm impressed that you came up with the idea."

"I do listen," the warrior shot back. "Sometimes, anyway," he amended, offering up a wink.

Anders could only shake his head at the elf's sputtering embarrassment, snickering with Varric as the two young lovers took the lead. "You know, just before they took off to Ferelden," he mentioned to the dwarf in a low whisper, "Merrill came to visit me at the clinic."

"Oh?" Varric broached, keeping his voice low, as he and the human mage fell back a few paces. "Was it anything serious?"

The renegade mage shook his head. "Her heart would flutter at odd times, which can be," he conceded. "But it only seemed to happen when Junior was around ."

Varric made an understanding rumble. "I've been watching him make doe-eyes at Daisy since we took her off of that mountain," he boasted. "Just been waiting until they did something about it."

Anders eyed the pair appraisingly. "So...do you think they did?"

"Oh yeah," the dwarf retorted. "Gave them a little  _Romulus and Jaetythra_ , and they didn't come back around for a couple of days after that." He cackled proudly .

"You sly dog," Anders breathed. "That was low."

"Why do you think the Rivaini hasn't shown her face lately?" Varric wondered aloud. "She doesn't wanna pay u p."

Whistling, the renegade mage shook his head. "Leave it to you two to wager on something like that," he said. "Though I might have got in on it myself, a few years ago."

The journey continued like that until mid-afternoon, with Anders and Varric bantering on while Merrill and Carver guided them over the increasingly-rough country to Sundermount. If the Dalish elf could hear their gossip, she seemed to ignore it, and by the time they found a path to the foot of the mountain, Anders felt his spirits raise considerably.

Seeing the Dalish was fascinating, even if they regarded the outsiders warily, and Merrill with naked hostility. She didn't seem inclined to loiter, instead leading them quickly to a central fire, at which stood a tall Dalish woman with silver hair. Anders spied golden streaks over the woman's face when she turned to greet them, and he could sense her considerable power. He knew then that she must be the Keeper, Marethari.

"Merrill," she pronounced, regarding her former charge skeptically. "Have you at last abandoned your self-imposed exile and returned to us, child?"

Carver hiccuped something suspiciously close to 'Told you so,' but Merrill didn't seem daunted by the elder mage's disapproving stare. "Of course not," she replied, drawing herself up to her full height. "I...we," she corrected herself, glancing to Carver, "have nearly finished the  _el'u'vi'an_ , in fact."

Anders wondered if her including Carver's assistance was meant to give him credit, or to shame the Keeper for her own lack of help. Marethari seemed to take it as the latter, for her eyes narrowed. "I see," she breathed, and she looked upon Merrill's companions with something approaching pity. "Why are you here, then, Merrill? Simply to torment us?"

"Of course not!" Merrill exclaimed. "Why would you-" Anger stole the mage's words, but Carver spoke up to fill the silence.

"Miss...uh, Keeper," he ventured, offering the woman a smile. "We need a special tool to finish the mirror...an arulan home."

Marethari sniffed and said something in Dalish, which caused Merrill to blush furiously and splutter a reply in the same tongue. The Keeper raised her hand and pressed on. "You seek the  _arulin'holm_ ," she said, looking from Carver to Merrill. "You must have known that I would not willingly part with it."

"Yes," Merrill confirmed, something approaching venom in her voice. "That's why I'm invoking  _vir sule'vi'nan_ ," she continued. "You don't have to approve, Keeper, but you must give me a service to perform...and if I can do so, our custom demands you surrender the tool until my own task is done."

"Well," Marethari spat, "I'm glad to know that I can still disapprove." She turned away from them, then, and back toward the fire, crossing her arms beneath her chest. Just before Merrill spoke again, however, the Keeper continued. "As it happens, I was going to seek you out myself, before the moon's half-turn. I had hoped that you and your friends would aid our clan out of charity and prudence, but I see now that you will only accept the tool in trade."

Merrill's lips parted as she gathered her thoughts. "What would you have us do, Keeper?"

Anders thought that Marethari looked a bit sad as she rounded on them again, almost mournful. "It concerns Feynriel," she admitted, her brows knitting. She referred to the mage whose Dalish mother had been seduced by an Antivan merchant, who'd left her to raise the child alone in Kirkwall's Alienage. Carver and Bethany had rescued the boy from Tevinter slavers shortly before their journey into the Deep Roads. Though he appeared human, Marethari had taken him in, evidently with designs that he take Merrill's place as her First. "He is a Dreamer...what the Tevinters call  _somniari_."

Merrill and Anders gasped nearly in time with one another. "How is that possible?" Anders inquired, speaking up for the first time since entering the encampment. "There hasn't been a record of a somniari since before the last Blight."

Marethari's eyes fell heavily upon the human mage, and she obviously reappraised him. "It is a rare magic," she confirmed, "and very dangerous."

Merrill broke in, talking to Carver. "Dreamers can shape the Beyond to their wishes," she explained. "While they sleep, they can travel to others' dreams and work powerful magic that affects their victims in the waking world."

"Maker," Carver swore, looking around. "Where's Feynriel now?"

"Asleep in his tent," Marethari replied. "He has been such for two days, now. I fear he may fall prey to a demon."

The former First nodded. "You would have us kill him, then?"

The Keeper blinked deliberately and then shook her head. "No, child...I would have you do something far more dangerous. I will send you and your companions into the Fade, where you must retrieve Feynriel and fend off any spirits that seek to use him to enter our world."

The look of betrayal on Merrill's face was nearly enough to break Anders' heart. "You would dip into the old magics for this...this  _half-breed_ ," she hissed. "You never did so for me!"

Marethari shook her head, slowly, looking remorseful once again. "If Feynriel becomes an abomination, he will be too powerful to stop, even for me. His life is now in your hands, child," she allowed. "If you wish the  _arulin'holm_ , you must deliver him back to us ."

Eventually, Merrill acceded to the Keeper's demand, and Anders found himself being volunteered to take a trip into the Fade. Marethari gathered ingredients for a potion that they would all drink to help ease the transition, and by the time the sun was setting to the west, the Kirkwall companions were ready. As Anders held his cup, he felt an odd fluttering in his mana; that, coupled with the dirty look Merrill gave to the Keeper, told him that the elder elf had sewn potent magic into the brew...which explained why they wouldn't need a small mountain of lyrium to achieve the desired result.

"I'm not so sure about this," Varric said, sniffing his wooden cup suspiciously. "Feels like my grandma would disapprove."

Anders smirked, reminded of Oghren's reaction to being sucked involuntarily into the Fade, back in the Blackmarsh. "At least you're ready for it. I knew a dwarf once…" But he couldn't finish the thought, since his own potion kicked in, stealing him away to sleep just as the last light faded from the edge of the valley .

* * *

The eddies of power were as familiar to it as they'd always been, even though it had been many mortal years since Justice could walk unhindered in the Fade. Even now, it sensed its home partly through its familiar's human senses. Yet the sound of magic filled it with a sense of rightness it had sorely missed, all the same. "It is good to be here again," the spirit mused. "It is much better than the...empty air of your world."

The mortals' reactions were predictable, but understandable. The spirit did not know how it appeared to them, but they looked much the same as in the waking world. The human man took a half-conscious step forward, placing himself between Justice and Merrill. "You're Anders' special friend, I take it?"

"I am Justice," the spirit confirmed. "Anders has told you of me." It wasn't a question.

The elven mage spoke up, and Justice was nearly distracted by the brilliant light that her magical core gave off in this place. "Do you know why we're here, spirit?"

"I do not," Justice admitted. "Eons have passed in the mortal realm since last I saw his kind here," it said, indicating the dwarf called Varric.

Varric grunted. "Don't remind me. I'm about three nut-hairs away from jumping out of my skin as it is ."

"We're all a little jumpy," the human warrior pointed out, and he looked around their environs. "This...looks like the Gallows," he said, turning a full circle. "I guess we're in Feynriel's nightmare. We're supposed to rescue him from a demon," he explained, casting Justice a cautious glance. "Will you help us do that?"

Justice nodded, taking an odd pleasure in the mortal gesture. "It is just to save a vulnerable mortal from the predations of the Fade," it pronounced.

"Let's get started looking, then," Varric insisted. "So we can get the hell outta here."

Justice had no objection, and neither did the other two mortals. The Fade around them was strangely-shaped, in that it so closely resembled the clean lines and consistent layout of mortal architecture, so it did not take the party long to find the main chamber of the dream.

Where a pitiful creature of sloth lie in wait, covered in oozing rags. "I am Torpor," it announced, rather sedately. "And, if I might be so bold, I believe we might come to an accord." It addressed the mortals, seemingly afraid to cast a glance Justice's way.

The mortal boy, Carver, conferred silently with his elven companion. Justice frowned, but did not speak; the spirit had not led them to this place, so it had no right to decide their course...at least until the demon made its aim plain.

"We're listening," Carver allowed, though he seemed wary. That was good, at least.

The shade before them considered its words carefully. "You seek to save the boy from his nightmares," it divined. "Currently, there are two powerful spirits in contest for his essence-they wish to use him as a vehicle to enter the mortal world."

"We'd gathered that," the boy barked, impatient as always. "Get to the point."

"Very well," Torpor sighed. "I offer you my aid in defeating these demons...in return, you let me have the boy. I have designs to increase my power within the Fade, which his talents would suit nicely, and yet I have no desire to enter your world."

Justice had had enough. "You cannot possibly trust this monster," the spirit growled. "It would twist another creature to its own purposes, against the mortal's will." Justice could not possibly countenance such an action.

The elven girl, Merrill, gave the spirit of Justice a half-frightened look. It could see the gears turning in her mind; she had already consorted with a demon, and so thought she knew how to keep the boy safe, but she was as foolish as Anders had been. Carver seemed to come to his senses at last, though. "Would there be anything to keep you from crossing the Veil later on? If you changed your mind?"

It was a sneaky ploy for time, Justice could tell, for the boy was already reaching for his weapon. Torpor hesitated, so Justice spoke for the demon. "It cannot answer that question, for once it takes up residence within the mage, it will be carried with him while waking and sleeping."

"You dare interfere?" Torpor hissed, drawing itself up. "This does not concern you, fool."

"Make your decision," Justice told the mortals. "If you wish to sell the mage to this monster, you shall have to face me. I cannot allow such iniquity to go unchallenged."

That seemed to firm Carver's resolve. "No deal," he pronounced, drawing the dream image of his greatblade. The battle was short; Torpor was weak indeed, with only a few minor thralls to come to its aid, and in mere moments the courtyard was cleared of any spirit but Justice.

"We should hurry," Merrill insisted. "There's no way to know how long Feynriel will last, if he's got two spirits after him."

A pair of staircases rose to either side of the party, each leading to a separate door. The taller mortals headed for the rightward door, so the spirit and the dwarf followed. The scene that met them was strange indeed; the lad that must be Feynriel stood beside an enormous demon of pride, but he looked down upon it, as though the two were of a height...and when the boy spoke, it was clear that the demon was projecting a more familiar image to him.

The sudden appearance of the strangers must have snapped the boy out of his trance. "You're not the Keeper," Feynriel exclaimed. "She warned me of my magic...she tried to help me! You only want to use me!" He turned and ran, slipping through a solid wall as though it were nothing but air.

The mortals gasped as the demon rounded on them, and Justice realised that it must have been projecting the same image of the elven Keeper to them up until the moment their quarry disappeared. Unlike the pathetically weak Torpor, when this demon spoke, the very fabric of the Fade itself reverberated with echoes of power. "You have interrupted my meal," the prideful creature accused. "I would know why, before I slay you."

Carver seemed to recover the quickest, though the enormous purple figure before him still obviously made the warrior wary. "We're here to save him," Carver allowed.

"Are you certain?" The words came as both a low growl and a loud boom, caressing the ears and vibrating within the chests of the mortals. The demon inspected its company with naked contempt. "Perhaps your companions are not as united as you believe. You, dwarf," the demon called, extending a long-taloned hand halfway across the gap. "You yearn to put an end to your brother, yet he eludes your grasp." Its talons turned upward, clasping into a fist. "Join with me, and I shall give you the power to find him and slay him."

Justice was surprised when the dwarf stepped forward. "How...how're you gonna do that?"

"Please," the demon grunted, dismissively. "Such a task is easily within my power already...and when I have the boy, it will cost me nothing."

A moment of hesitation passed, but all at once, Varric rounded on those he'd called friends. His eyes were oddly hollow. "Sorry, Junior," he grunted, bringing his crossbow to bear. "Nothing personal ."

More powerful spirits came to the demon's aid as well, and Justice lost itself in the pitched battle. It used Anders' magic and its own ethereal powers to bring retribution to the greedy creatures, and they fell before it, one by one. The prideful creature took a combined effort to combat, but at last it, too, was stilled. Justice had not seen the dwarf fall, but when the battle ended, Varric was nowhere to be seen.

"He...he was not of the Beyond," Merrill ventured, trying to convince herself as much as her mortal companion. "Surely he didn't really come to any harm."

Carver grunted, wearing a grimace. "Let's go take care of the other one," he growled. "We shouldn't stay here any longer than absolutely necessary."

The elf agreed, and so the two mortals and the spirit crossed over the courtyard to the opposing door. Once through it, Justice could only laugh at the hideous form of the demon that was attempting to enthrall the captive boy. It was withered beyond imagining, its limbs knotted, its eyes empty sockets weeping down its cheeks. "Begone, spirit of desire," Justice called.

That was enough to break the demon's spell on Feynriel, who retreated much the same as he'd done before, but the grotesque spirit was not about to give up without a fight. The Fade shimmered around it, and Carver gasped; Justice knew that he did not see the demon as it truly stood, but merely another projection, of lust and beauty that few mortals could resist.

Tiring of dealing with demons, however, Justice took it upon itself to launch the attack. The demon's surprise kept it from calling many powerful allies to its cause, and Justice's assault broke the budding enthrallment the demon had been working on the mortal warrior. Together, they purged the chamber of the ravening spirits.

"Thanks," Carver barked, as he led them back out into the courtyard.

Justice offered no reply, but it was happy to see that the object of their endeavour stood in the centre of the dream, waiting for them. Feynriel fairly trembled at the party's approach, his eyes fixing upon Justice warily. "Fear not," the spirit said, dismissively. "I have nothing to give, and you have nothing I wish to take. These mortals with me have come to take you home."

Feynriel blinked, casting his gaze upon the human and the elf. "Wait...I do recognise you," the Dreamer admitted. "Marethari must have sent you to rescue me." He did not sound relieved, as one might expect, but rather he seemed dismayed by the prospect. "But...it isn't going to stop. The demons...they keep whispering to me. They won't ever stop trying to draw me in, and one day…" He closed his eyes, his head hanging. "Please, just k-kill me. Let me die here."

The request took the mortals aback. "Would that even work?" Carver wondered, glancing at his elven companion.

She nodded. "In a way," Merrill admitted. "I suspect that Marethari has bound his magic in the waking world, so...killing him here would destroy it. I believe your Circle calls such mages Tranquil."

Justice frowned; it had borne witness to such rites, and before their fusion, the spirit had conversed with Anders about the injustice of severing a mage from their very essence. The term obviously meant something to Carver as well, for he shook his head . "It'd be better to take you back and kill you for real," he said. "But there has to be another way." A moment passed as the boy considered Feynriel's fate. "Didn't...didn't Anders and Marethari say that there used to be Tevinter mages like him?"

Merrill made an affirmative gasp. "That's right! The Keeper's lore can't train him...but maybe he could find a suitable magister."

Feynriel spoke up. "I thought you saved me from those people! They wanted to make me a slave!"

Carver shrugged. "They probably didn't know what you were," he pointed out. "I'd bet that you could go to the Imperium and do quite well for yourself. My father did, after all. He wasn't ever a slave."

That gave the half-elven boy pause for consideration. "It sounds better than dying," he decided, and then nodded more firmly. "Very well. I'll go to Tevinter, and see what they can teach me there." Once he'd decided, the boy's distress fled him. As his fingers twitched and he turned around, Justice felt the Fade beginning to reshape itself around him. "Tell my mother where I've gone," Feynriel requested, before stepping into a gap in the very air itself .

* * *

Anders awoke to a breathtaking blanket of stars strewn across the sky overhead; after so many days and nights in Darktown, he'd nearly forgotten how utterly beautiful nighttime could be. He remembered gulping down the last dregs of the magical potion Marethari had prepared for them all, but he did not recall even a moment of the Fade. His mind was as blank as any time Justice made itself manifest. "Did we...do it?" He wondered, blearily, sitting up from the bedroll and taking a better look around.

Carver and Merrill were both stirring, but Varric sat upon a log, backlit by the elves' great fire. "I guess so," the dwarf gruffed, and Anders noticed that he had Bianca resting between his knees, already half-cocked.

"What happened?" The renegade mage asked, frowning deeply.

"The bloody dwarf turned on us," Carver huffed, sitting up with a grunt. "We had to put him down."

Varric's head tilted down, though Anders couldn't see his expression, because of the fire behind him. "About that-"

"Don't worry about it," Merrill broke in, rising to her feet. "I felt the spirit probe me, too. It offered you something you didn't think you could get otherwise." She cast an even glance at the human warrior. "There was no harm done."

Carver looked to object for a moment, but then his shoulders slumped. "I guess so," he conceded. "Hell, even I felt the nasty thing pulling at my mind. I guess…" He shared another glance with the elven mage. "We just didn't want anything it could give us." Anders could have sworn he saw the warrior's cheeks redden. Then he shook his head and fixed the dwarf with a smirk. "No hard feelings, dwarf?"

A few heartbeats passed, and then Varric got to his feet, uncocking and shouldering his lady love. "No hard feelings, Junior," he confirmed, holding out a gloved hand for the other man to shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through the story! It feels like there's so much more story to go! Thanks goes, as always, to the fantastic clafount at fanfic.net for beta-reading this monster so well. Thanks also to wtgw for leaving comments, and to anyone else who's read and enjoyed!


	31. Family Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hawkes are reunited once more, summoned by a mysterious creature intent on their blood.

The sensation was all too familiar to Bethany, that faint buzzing at the back of her mind, combined with a low tingle in her veins. She readied her staff, looking to Monroi for confirmation of her suspicions. They were ranging in the Hinterlands on horseback, tasked with harassing any darkspawn bands that might cross their path. Such piecework was common for the Wardens, and infinitely preferable to chasing the monsters into the Deep Roads, where their numbers were already beginning to recover.

The stoic Orlesian inclined his head to her in silent acquiescence to her unvoiced question, and as one, they dismounted from their horses. The beasts were sturdy enough to ride into battle, but Redcliffe's stables were still too empty to risk them unnecessarily. Instead, the rogue and the mage tied their mounts to a nearby tree, and followed the taint's call deeper into the thick forest. Barcus stayed close to her, though she could tell that he strained to take off after the beasts.

"Two hurlocks," Bethany pronounced. "Half a dozen genlocks, at least." Her heart beat more quickly; the darkspawn would be ready for them. It certainly didn't feel like the fiends were retreating.

"Three genlocks," Monroi corrected her, gruffly. "The balance are dwarven thralls."

The mage was on the verge of apologising for her oversight when they broke through to the clearing where the darkspawn and their mindless servants had set up something like a camp. Bethany had never seen such a thing before, but her curiosity was overridden by her training. Monroi let loose with a barrage of arrows just as the biggest hurlock was rousing itself. Its challenging bellow was cut short by the last of those arrows, which jammed into its throat, but that made the beast even angrier.

In the deep seclusion of the forest, Bethany drew her forearm across the inconspicuous spike she'd worked into the handle of her staff , and the mage shuddered as her own tainted blood rose to her will. Before the hurlock and two of its genlock companions could close the distance to the Wardens, she had their blood roiling in their veins, and a few more well-placed arrows saw them fall.

One genlock and one hurlock remained, along with three corrupted dwarves. The proper darkspawn seemed agitated, and Bethany saw that one of the dwarves was cajoling them. Ignoring the thrum of the taint, she listened harder.

"...the Hawke," the dwarven ghoul said. "Go and get more! We must take the Hawke alive!"

Monroi was retrieving arrows from the monsters they'd already felled, eyeing the other side of the clearing warily. "Have you ever seen a ghoul issue orders?" Bethany wondered aloud, coming to stand beside him. Suspicion coursed through her when she realised that the talking dwarf knew her. The two darkspawn seemed ready to charge at them, but the dwarf's voice boomed at them to flee and gather reinforcements.

The Orlesian shook his head, but did not put voice to a reply. Instead he knocked an arrow and took down the yelling dwarf, which broke the darkspawn's spell. Soon they were rushing forward, right into a freezing spell. Bethany followed through with a single slash of her bladed staff, which caught the hurlock, shattering it into a hundred pieces. Her mabari lunged forward, taking care of the genlock with shredding claws and snapping teeth.

Both surviving dwarves fled at the Wardens' approach, and Monroi did not indicate that they should give chase. Bethany took the opportunity to inspect the camp more thoroughly; there was a large, haphazardly-built tent and a firepit with half an oxen on a spit, though not even flies had been hardy enough to brave the tainted meat. It struck the mage as very odd to see this kind of organisation, especially outside of a Blight.

A gurgling noise took her attention, and Bethany looked to see Monroi retrieving his arrow from the ghoul's neck. "He appears to be alive," the Orlesian informed her. "Though he may not remain so for long."

The mage understood his intent perfectly well. Without speaking, she fell to her knees beside the tainted dwarf, and she quickly ran a course of diagnostic spells over him. The miasma of the taint already invaded Bethany's flesh, so she was unbothered by the sensation. The dwarf's wounded neck was of immediate concern, however, and the mage hissed when the sympathetic magic caused her own throat to feel the arrow's strike. After a moment, though, the ghoul's flesh had been knitted and his heart still fluttered, if only weakly. Bethany put him to sleep, just to keep him from struggling. "The Commander will want to see him," she predicted. "He knew my name ."

Monroi's only reply was to help her hoist the dwarf off the ground. Awkwardly, they made their way back to the horses, and thence to Redcliffe.

* * *

Exhaustion gripped Bethany as she stripped out of her armoured robes, and it was only the filth of days of travel that kept her from collapsing onto her small cot. She shared the room with Faenathiel and Jarvik; though the human mage had shared the Commander's bed more than once, it hadn't earned her any private quarters of her own, nor any special treatment in the training yard or on the battlefield. Bethany didn't mind it terribly, though, as long as the big Ander Warden kept his hands and eyes to himself...though, more often than not, Fae offered him plenty of distraction.

Jarvik was nowhere to be seen as Bethany tore off her underpadding, thankfully, but just as the young Warden had slipped out of her boots, a knock sounded at the door. With a sigh, Bethany slipped a blue tunic over her head; it fell down to her mid-thigh, which was enough for any visitors. "Come in," she called, steeling herself for an increased bout of buzzing.

Nathaniel framed the doorway. "You're needed in the dungeons," he informed her.

A frown tugged at the corners of Bethany's mouth, but rather than question her orders, she extracted her dagger-belt from her dirty armour and strapped it over her hips. She knew better than to answer a summons unarmed, even if it was elsewhere in the castle. "Thank you for letting me know," she allowed, and she returned the elder Warden's curt nod.

The dungeons weren't far from her barracks, and Bethany didn't cross paths with anyone else on the way to the dank rooms. Near the bottom of the stairs, she spied the Commander's wiry hair and telltale ear. "Took you long enough," the elf said in greeting, without turning to look at the younger Warden. Like Bethany, she wore a simple tunic, though the Commander also had trousers and boots.

"Forgive me, Commander," the human mage retorted. "Perhaps you'd have preferred me stark naked ?"

That earned her an appreciative glance from the Commander, whose blood-coloured eyes lingered over Bethany's bare legs. "Later," she decided, offering a smirk. The elf cocked her head. "Come in here and wake this bastard up."

Bethany obeyed, unconcerned with the filth that her bare feet squished over; she likely still had worse in her hair from the darkspawn, after all. She took in the sight of the half-dead dwarf hanging up on the cell's back wall, his wrists shackled to a wooden beam and his head lolling. Silently, the human mage lifted her sleeping spell.

Almost instantly, the tainted dwarf's milky eyes latched onto her. "Hawke," his voice rasped, his bearded lips splitting into a beatific grin despite the patches of rot on his face. "I've found the Hawke. The Master will reward me above all others ."

The Commander snorted. "Not once I'm through with you, he won't," she vowed, but her words might as well have been directed at the wall upon which the dwarf hung. He only had eyes for Bethany. "You're going to tell me who sent you after one of my Wardes," the elf intoned, taking a dangerous step forward. "And if I don't like the answer, you're going to die slow."

"The Master...I found the Hawke...need the Key," the dwarf mumbled, still boring a hole in Bethany with the force of his sta re. He repeated the three phrases as a sort of mantra, over and over, even after the Commander slapped him hard enough to tear a ripe chunk of flesh from his cheek.

"Useless," the elf hissed. "He can't feel anything anyway. Probably don't even know I'm here." She threw Bethany a scathing look. "You see if you can get anything out of him."

"How am I supposed to do that, Commander?" Bethany replied, honestly at a loss. If the Commander saw no point in torturing the poor dwarf, what could the human mage do?

Those crimson eyes did not relent. "Use your imagination."

A chill settled in the pit of Bethany's stomach, but she could only nod. "Yes, Commander," she affirmed, and she stalked deeper into the cell. The dwarf stirred at her proximity, pushing against the wall with his feet to hang even closer to her. "What's your name, ser dwarf?"

"Hawke," he grumbled. "Master will be pleased. I have the Hawke." His cheek oozed black, thick blood, so corrupted with the taint that he already seemed more darkspawn than man.

"What does your master want with me?" Bethany tried, doing her best to ignore the yearning temptation that the dwarf's blood birthed within her. The taint in her own veins called out, urging her to soak up the corruption and the life that it carried .

Sweat ran freely into the dwarf's clouded eyes, but he didn't seem to notice. "The Key," he growled. "The Hawke has the Key. The Master needs the Key…the Master wants the Hawke."

Bethany's eyes narrowed. "I suppose that's progress, of a sort," she sighed. "I know nothing about any key, ser dwarf, nor to what I'm supposed to be unlocking."

"The Master," the dwarf choked out. "Master needs the Key."

"Yes," Bethany allowed, nodding slowly. "Your master needs a key...a key for what?"

"Wants the Hawke," the dwarf repeated. "I'll be rewarded with his favour...he'll have the Key…"

Snarling in frustration, Bethany turned away, lest she give in to the growing urge to strike him herself. The Commander stood in the doorway, however, blocking her retreat. "You ain't done, yet," the elf said, somewhat gently. "If this one's come for you, there'll be others...and I'd rather get to the bottom of this sooner rather than later."

Bethany bit her lip for half a breath. "I agree," she allowed. "But I don't know what else to do...you said yourself, he's impervious to pain." The dwarf kept grunting his words, about the Master and the Key, even as the two Wardens spoke.

The Commander's eyes flashed. "You do know what to do," she corrected the human. "And you will do it."

Bethany's lips parted, her throat tightening around a contradiction that threatened to slip out. There was no room in the Commander's face for dissent. "I…" She managed, frustration and fear nearly enough to counterbalance the subtle longing that pulled at her veins. "I will," Bethany conceded, swallowing with difficulty and casting her gaze onto the muck-strewn floor.

_Andraste forgive me_ , the young woman prayed silently, though in truth she'd come to terms with Andraste's disfavour long ago. Possibly even before she became a Grey Warden . With a steadying breath, Bethany rounded upon the babbling dwarf, drawing her dagger in one fluid motion. The cut across her palm was subtle and would be easy to heal, but as her blood wept to the surface, the Warden surrendered to its desire.

Ichor rose from the dwarf's torn face just as Bethany's dark scarlet lifeblood took flight from her flesh, and the two shades of red mingled in the air between them. Bethany pushed her mind through the connection, suppressing a shudder at how little effort it took to invade the tainted dwarf's thoughts. It would be much harder to command a healthy mind, but the corruption had left but little of the man to fight her influence.

His mind was a jumbled mess, images and sounds in disarray, so that Bethany had to close her eyes and concentrate to sort through them. Slowly, she built a picture of his life; he'd been a surface dwarf associated with the Carta, cast adrift when the Commander had torn through the slums of Orzammar to slaughter the organisation. Somehow he'd found himself in Kirkwall of all places, hiring himself out as a mercenary and an all-purpose thug. One job saw him escorting a caravan into the Vimmark Mountains; it would have been legitimate, except for the cargo-a wagonload of lyrium, bound for Starkhaven. Somehow the dwarf was betrayed and left for dead in the mountain passes, until another dwarf stumbled upon him. His rescuer was deep in the throes of the taint, and soon forced him to drink corrupted blood as the price of his salvation.

At the memory of the darkspawn blood touching the dwarf's lips, Bethany was thrown violently back, literally and figuratively. If not for the Commander's reflexes, her head would have split open on the cell door, though that might have been preferable to the tongue of fire that wormed through her mind. Everything went white, and when Bethany regained her senses, she was huddled on the dirty floor, shaking .

"What did you see?" The Commander asked, offering the younger Warden a hand.

Bethany gulped another lungful of air, easing herself to her feet with the Commander's help. "I...don't know," she admitted. "But I think I know where we need to go...and I think Carver's in trouble, too."

The Commander's face set. "It looks like we're crossing the Waking Sea, this time." She spared a glance to their prisoner, and when Bethany followed suit, she saw that the dwarf hung motionless, ichor dripping from his nose and mouth. "We should be able to make the arrangements in less than a month," the Commander pronounced. "Tell Nathaniel to see to this mess."

"Yes, Commander," Bethany responded automatically. She stepped unsteadily after the elf. Though she knew that the dwarf was dead, the human mage thought she heard the echo of a snicker coming from the cell once she'd left it.

* * *

Carver watched as Varric chewed on his toothpick thoughtfully, and the dwarf ran an oiled rag up Bianca's side. "Do you really have to do that?" Carver demanded, throwing the other man a dirty look. "Right where we can see you, too."

"What?" Varric rebuffed, arching an eyebrow. "Proper care and maintenance is crucial to keeping your loved ones in working order. Don't tell me you don't give Daisy a little tender loving every now and then."

"Of course he does," Merrill supplied, sounding far too pleased with herself to be embarrassed . Her cheeks did turn a slight rosy shade when she shared a glance with the warrior, however.

Carver rolled his eyes. "Yes, well...not in public. I'm a gentleman about it."

Isabela clicked her tongue. "Quick, Varric, pass Bianca to me and we'll really get Junior's ears burning."

"Not on your life, Rivaini," the dwarf shot back, working the rag over Bianca's cocking ring . "Besides," he continued, throwing another glance in Carver's direction, "you're polishing your sword. Have you no shame?"

The warrior grunted and scraped his whetstone down the fine edge of his greatblade. "I don't take my sword to bed with me, though," he pointed out. "Big difference."

"Ooh, he's got you there!" Isabela said with a cackle.

Varric snorted. "Whatever," he allowed. "Don't listen to them, Bianca," he cooed, still working the crossbow over. "Daddy's gonna keep you nice and tight, no matter what the mean girls say."

"That's so sweet!" Merrill exclaimed, and she sat down on the dusty rock between Varric and Carver. "I think it's perfectly normal to take care of your weapon where other people can see."

A melodious laugh sounded from behind the boulder on which the three companions sat, and Isabela stalked in front of the rock to look out on the dusty landscape. "To be fair, Kitten," she purred over her shoulder, "I don't think your idea of 'normal' accords with most people's."

Carver's eyes narrowed. "Speak for yourself," he groused, bringing his arm to rest across Merrill's shoulders. "Normal people wear smallclothes."

"It was a compliment," the Rivaini shot back, smirking at the both of them. "Normal people are boring." She turned away again; not too long ago, Carver would have had to resist the urge to leer at the pirate, but Merrill leaned more heavily into his side, and he had no trouble giving the elf all of his attention. Isabela heaved a sigh, oblivious to the warrior's distraction. "You're sure they said they'd be here today?"

"I would tell you not to get your knickers knotted up, but we've established that you don't get that particular problem," the warrior remarked, only to flinch at the elbow Merrill planted firmly in his flank.

Varric grunted, finally putting his rag away. "They'd better be here. I'm not sure the Carta thugs will take too kindly to waiting, and I'd rather have the backup."

Carver looked overtop Merrill's head at the dwarf. "You just want to meet Bethany's boss," he accused.

"Well, I don't have a beard for her to trim," Varric pointed out. "I think we'll get along just fine."

The warrior blanched, remembering the stinging kiss of Athadra's daggers at his throat. "Yes, well," he mumbled. "Just try to remember that she's a crazy bitch...and don't tell her I said that." He caught Merrill's eye. "You don't tell her, either," he added, for emphasis .

"I think I see them," Isabela announced, shading her eyes against the sunlight.

Carver thought she sounded far too enthusiastic to get on with killing some annoying dwarves, but he levered himself off of the rock nonetheless, putting up his sword and sauntering over to look out on the valley. Sure enough, there were a pair of shadowed figures picking their way along the very same trail that he and his friends had mounted a couple of hours beforehand. "Looks like them," he conceded. As he looked, a lumpy figure resolved before them, which must have been Barcus.

"Oh, it is," Merrill added, having stalked over without making a sound. "The Champion doesn't look any less grumpy than before, though. I wonder why that is?"

Varric huffed, making his way to them less than gracefully. "Probably has to do with having to go into the Deep Roads on a regular basis," he ventured. "I still can't make them out from here."

"They'll be here in a…" Carver began, but his words trailed away as Isabela took off down the zig-zagging path. "I wonder what's biting her arse." He watched the pirate skid to a halt in front of the newcomers, and the three exchanged words, but they were too far away for Carver to pick up on them. "Can you hear?" He asked, looking to the elf at his side.

Merrill's cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red. "I...ahh…"

The dwarf chuckled. "That bad, huh?"

" Forget I asked ," Carver sighed, shaking his head. Barcus bounded up the hill toward them, and though the warrior held out his hand, the hound seemed keen for Merrill's attention. She happily cooed over him and scratched behind his ears, which sent his hindquarters to wagging.

It took just a handful of minutes for the Wardens and the Rivaini to make their way back up the hill, and they all seemed in good spirits to the warrior, even Athadra. Carver gave the Champion of Redcliffe a respectful nod when she came level with him.

"Holy shit," Varric guffawed, looking the short elf up and down. Carver recalled having the same reaction when he'd finally seen the heavy armour and panoply of arms that Athadra carried so easily, but at least the warrior had had the good sense to keep his surprise silent, back in Highever. "What the hell do you need three swords and…" Varric craned his neck as best he could to one side and then the other, "...two daggers for?"

The elven Warden arched a brow at the dwarf. "Eight daggers," she corrected, glancing down to her boots. Three shankers' handles protruded subtly from within each, complementing the two daggers she wore at her back, two longswords strapped to her hip, and the greatblade slung across her shoulders. "Bela warned me about your mouth, so you can have that one for free...and I expect you'll get your question answered soon enough."

The dwarf's mouth opened and closed a few times, before he finally settled on a "Yes, ma'am," and then tried to look as inconspicuous as possible .

Bethany's lips parted as she regarded Carver, but then he saw her eyes flick to Merrill, and she blinked curiously. "You look different," the human mage pointed out, giving the taller elf a small grin. "It's quite nice." She referred to the proper armour that Carver had commissioned for Merrill, lightweight plates painted white and unrusted silver chainmail.

"Oh," the elf breathed, giggling and looking away. "Thank you." Merrill self-consciously picked at the blue sash she wore around her waist, and leaned a few inches closer to Carver.

"They're so  _sweet_ ," Isabela cooed. "You know, if every blood mage were as adorable as them, the templars would go out of business."

Carver rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure. Just ask all the bandits we've killed how cuddly we are." He nodded to his sister. "Did you get a message from the Carta  _asking_  you to come here, too?" The note he'd received from Bethany had been terse, but since she'd told him to meet her at this exact valley, he figured it couldn't have been a coincidence when an odd-looking dwarf had delivered a similar message not long after.

Bethany hesitated, glancing at Athadra. "In a manner of speaking," the human mage allowed. "We're expecting a bit of trouble."

"Sunshine always did have a flair for understatement," Varric cut in, unshouldering Bianca. "I would ask how you've been, if your boss didn't look like she'd murder me before you'd have a chance to answer."

Isabela gave a husky chuckle. "Oh, Athadra doesn't bite," she teased, though she'd taken a couple of steps away from the woman beforehand .

Carver tensed, preparing to witness the pirate getting her arse handed to her, but instead the elven Warden merely grunted. "You  _know_  that ain't true," Athadra supplied, giving the Rivaini a wink.

"Hey," the warrior protested, "how come she gets to call you by your name and I don't?"

"You ain't had me bent double over an ale barrel ," Athadra pointed out, in a tone that made it clear he never would, either. "Though I see you and Merrill came to an understanding. How's the work on the mirror?" She addressed the question to the other elf, a hint of curiosity on her scarred face.

Merrill considered her reply for a moment. "It's nearly finished, I think," she said at last. "I never did thank you for helping us get the pieces...I don't know how we'd have made it through all those darkspawn otherwise."

The Champion laughed derisively. "That were nothing," she boasted. "Beth could've cleared out the temple by herself." As Carver remembered it, his sister nearly had done so, too. "I expect we'll see a bit more resistance here."

Carver's brow drew down. "What makes you think we'll run into any darkspawn?" From what he could tell, the Carta were trying to shake him down for protection money...though why they expected anything other than the edge of his blade as a downpayment, he couldn't begin to imagine.

The woman who'd been his childhood friend fixed him with a nearly-pitying look. "Be grateful you don't know," she insisted. "And you can thank me by letting me and Beth be there when you activate the  _el'u'vi'an_."

"I...of course," Merrill responded, after another moment of hesitation. "I suppose you've earned that."

The briefest of smiles flickered over Athadra's lips, and she gestured to Bethany. "Let's go," she pronounced, and together the two Wardens brushed past Carver and his companions. The warrior and his friends could do little but follow as Athadra and Bethany led them farther up the path into the Vimmark Mountains .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta-reader, clafount!


	32. Passpartout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens and the Kirkwall companions venture underground in the Vimmark Mountains, and from there they must escape by breaking ancient seals and defeating what lurks in the shadows.

 

The abandoned mining tunnels were making everyone nervous; the Champion and Bethany were very twitchy, even worse than they'd been in the darkspawn-infested temple, but they didn't put voice to any complaint. So far, they'd done the bulk of the heavy fighting, the elf with her twin longswords and the human with her bladed staff. Merrill had helped as best she could, flinging spells alongside Varric, while Carver, Isabela, and Barcus stood in mid-ground to fend off any enemies which slipped past the two Grey Wardens.

Merrill still didn't understand why they were being attacked by the  _durgen'len_ , but she believed the Wardens when they'd warned her that their foes had been tainted by the darkspawn somehow. Most kept grunting about "the Hawke", even as they attacked.

Yet the elf didn't need to be a Grey Warden to feel at odds with this place. Already, they'd inadvertently released a malevolent spirit, which had transformed into an ethereal dragon. That had given them all much more trouble than the seemingly-endless supply of dwarven ghouls, and the subtle threads of power woven through the mountain told Merrill that they hadn't yet seen the crux of magic.

The Champion, which was what Athadra had told Merrill and Carver to call her, led the way deeper into the ancient mine, but she stopped short when a solitary dwarf stumbled toward them. He looked a bit less far-gone than most of the dwarves they'd killed so far, but his eyes were still pale silver. "The Hawke's blood," he grumbled, lifting a hand toward Bethany. "The Master will rise…he will be free..."

Varric made a disbelieving sound, low in his throat. "Gerav…?"

That seemed to catch the tainted dwarf off his guard. "Varric?" He exclaimed, jumping in surprise. "N-no one told me you would be part of this," he protested. "We were...just going after the Hawke."

"The Hawke is right here, you know," Bethany grumbled. "Why did your man attack me?"

The dwarf gulped at the air, like a trout on shore. "I...can't say," he managed. "The Master must be free!"

Varric came up beside the Wardens. "Really, Gerav?" He scoffed, shouldering Bianca. "I thought better of you than this. I mean, gutting the occasional competitor for fun and profit-that's the game ; but what the hell are you all doing down here? Worshipping demons?"

"We drink the darkspawn blood," the dwarf, Gerav, informed them. "He calls us!" A blissful smile touched his lips, which shot ice through Merrill's insides. She shared a look with Carver, but the warrior seemed content to let his twin sister bear the brunt of the dwarf's attention.

"Aye," the elven Warden butted in. "We gathered that by now. I want to know why in the Void you're doing it."

Gerav blinked, taking notice of the Champion of Redcliffe for the first time. "It's the only way," he grunted. "To...hear the music."

Varric growled, nearly as low as Barcus was wont to do. "Oh come on, you filthy nug-licker, snap out of it! There's no gold in hallucinating," he pointed out.

Before the tainted dwarf could answer, Bethany spoke up again. "I take it you know this man, Varric?"

"Yeah," Varric replied. "This is Gerav. He's a greedy, brilliant son of a nug from the Carta." He turned his attention back to his friend. "Gerav, this is Hawke," he allowed, using the word to refer to Bethany for the first time that Merrill could remember. "She's the one whose blood you want to drink, or bathe in, or...whatever." He breathed a raspy chuckle. "But, if you're looking for eternal youth, I've gotta tell you...she's no virgin ."

Isabela snickered. "Got that right." Merrill couldn't see Bethany's face, but she felt her own cheeks warm on the other mage's behalf.

The addition of another speaker seemed to spook the taint-addled dwarf. "The Master is calling," he insisted, his hands trembling visibly. "He...needs the blood."

Varric snorted. "Gerav, buddy," he called, shaking his head. "This isn't like you." Casually, he reached up and unholstered Bianca, hoisting her as though showing her off. "Look, I've still got Bianca. Never misfired a day in her life!" Varric chuckled darkly. "You don't want her to see you like this, do you?"

Bethany heaved a sigh. "Do you want to spare this man, Varric?"

The dwarf shook his head, cocking Bianca slowly. "Not if he's after you, Sunshine," Varric intoned, leveling Bianca at the dwarf who'd evidently helped forge her. "Bianca, I think it's time to say goodbye…"

But then, as quick as a blink, Gerav seemed to disappear behind a sudden puff of smoke. When the dust cleared a few heartbeats later, he stood a dozen paces away , flanked by three other corrupted dwarves. "The Master will rise!" He screamed.

Merrill didn't see whose attack reached him first; she and the other two mages had fired spells, while Bianca sent bolt after bolt, and in just a few moments this pack of assailants had fallen as surely as the rest. Once they were all dead, Varric carefully approached Gerav's corpse, evidently wary of the taint that his former friend's blood carried. The living dwarf told them that he'd had some dealings with the Carta before the Hawkes' arrival in Kirkwall, and that Gerav had even designed Bianca. After a minute of sober silence, he shook his head and urged them on. Just a bit deeper in the tunnels, the Wardens forced open a rusty gate, and stopped short when a well-armoured dwarf stepped out from behind a boulder.

Only the boulder didn't look like any rock Merrill had ever seen; it was shaped almost like a dog, writ large, with a broad horn above the end that looked suspiciously like a mouth. And then the rock blinked at her. The elf's lips parted to ask after the beast , but the dwarf pre-empted any questions.

"Hawke," he growled, only a little more intelligibly than most of his fellows had up to this point. "They told me you were going to be trouble. And look, you brought the whole family, too." Just like the others, he'd addressed Bethany, but now he spared a look Carver's way. "How generous."

"Good to finally be noticed," the warrior mumbled, though he didn't step from the Wardens' shadows .

The armoured dwarf's milk-white eyes glinted in the low light of the glowstones. "I swore to Corypheus that we'd bring him Malcolm Hawke's blood, one way or the other."

Bethany's stance relaxed, but only slightly. "What does our father have to do with this?"

The tainted dwarf shook his head. "The Master wants you. I don't ask why." He didn't seem disposed to break their accord, at least not yet. Merrill heard the scraping sound of boots echoing deeper in the tunnel, but she couldn't see anyone else.

The Champion still held her swords at the ready. "Who's Corypheus?"

The dwarf twitched. "Another grey one," he grunted, his greasy moustache curling. "The Master will not be pleased."

That answer didn't suit the Commander of the Grey; the elven Warden leveled her left-hand blade at the dwarf's chin. "Who is Corypheus?" She repeated, her tone lowering dangerously.

"He is the Master," the dwarf spat. "What Corypheus wants, Corypheus gets. From us...or from someone." The blade at his neck didn't look to perturb him in the slightest.

Bethany gave her brother a concerned look, but her face grew more resolute with each passing heartbeat. "If this Corypheus wants our blood," she pronounced, turning back to the dwarf and readying her bladed staff for battle, "he shall have to earn it."

The dwarf seemed pleased by the reply, for he spread his arms. "Corypheus!" He called, his voice an echoing gurgle. "We have done as you commanded! Prepare to receive your sacrif-"

His words were cut short by the Champion's blade as it penetrated the dwarf's throat, punching through the back of his neck in a single smooth motion. A moment later, that odd-looking dog-rock reared back and let out a roar that hurt Merrill's ears, and the elf had to dive out of the way as it charged into the crowd. Chaos came down, as dwarves seemed to appear out of the very walls, and Merrill lost track of anything but keeping the tainted men and women at least her stave's length away from her.

At last the chamber lay still again; both Bethany and the Champion had to work arrows out of joints in their armour, and Carver and Isabela's blades had been bloodied, but everyone came out of the conflict relatively unscathed. Once the Wardens had healed one another, Bethany's attention caught on a pulsing light that came from beneath that first dwarf's corpse. She heaved the dead man over, revealing a glowing orb that sat atop his belly. Despite a word of caution from the Commander, Bethany knelt down and tentatively reached for the orb.

Instantly it sent a jolt through the human Warden, freezing her in place. The light shifted, elongating in her hand, until she held an odd-looking stave. It was crowned with a cylindrical cut-out design. Merrill's eyes widened in recognition, and she found her voice for the first time in hours. "It looks like a key."

"It is," Bethany breathed, finally able to rise to her feet once more. "This is the Key," she announced. "It...belonged to Father ."

"How do you know that?" Carver demanded, coming up to take a closer look.

Bethany shrugged. "I'm not sure how," she admitted. "But I know it for certain." She shouldered the bladed staff she'd claimed as her own, and redoubled her grip on the found artifact.

Merrill could feel the object's power, even without having to touch it. "There is some old magic here," she commented. "We should be careful."

The Champion nodded, re-sheathing her bloody swords. "Let's go see just what this Corypheus fellow wants with you two. You're with me, Beth," she barked, turning to forge more deeply into the tunnels.

Merrill, Carver, and Varric followed. Soon it became apparent that the mines around them had been dug up from inside the mountains, rather than from the outside, for the deeper the companions delved, the finer the craft of the walls could be seen. The pulse of magic in the air intensified when they reached the bottom of a long, stone stairway; without warning, a diaphanous barrier breathed itself into life, sealing the stairwell. Though it was a semi-transparent orange and shimmered like a fine veil, the Dalish elf could tell that its magic was powerful.

"Don't touch it," she warned, when the Champion unsheathed her greatblade and made to cut through the aether. "I think it's designed to absorb any energy that you give it...spells or impacts will only make it stronger." Merrill bit her lip, nervous that the Champion would ignore her counsel, but the elven Warden nodded after a moment's consideration.

"There are darkspawn ahead," the Champion informed them, almost casually. She kept her two-hander drawn as she took the lead yet again, and within moments they all saw the truth of her prediction.

Merrill had seen darkspawn before, of course, even before they'd ventured into the ancient elven temple to recover the remains of the  _el'u'vi'an_. But they were not just a dozen feet underground, with a ready escape; in this place, the Deep Roads were closer than the surface, and something told Merrill that the only way forward was down. So the mob of monsters that soon greeted the interloping surfacers sent a wave of panic through the Dalish elf that took nearly all of her resolve to master, even as she called up tempests and shot hexes to help bring down the ravening fiends.

Despite the Wardens' impressive facility with arms, there were simply too many darkspawn for them to counter on their own. Merrill's nerves nearly broke when Carver and Isabela had to raise their blades against the tainted creatures, and the elf redoubled her efforts. More than once, she had to use the jagged blades of her own staff to beat back a hurlock before she could fry it with a bit of lightning, and the temptation to dip into her own blood was overwhelming...but Merrill knew that if she opened her flesh, the risk of getting tainted herself stood too great, and so somehow she managed to resist .

When at last the anteroom was cleared and they'd claimed a few minutes' rest, the Champion coaxed them on. Just a few rooms beyond, however, Merrill sensed a dangerous thinning of the Veil. The two Wardens, both educated mages in their own right, seemed to silently decide on that weak point as their immediate destination. They passed through a wide doorway and both stopped short, gaping at an enormous tapestry, which was emblazoned with the same griffon device that was patterned all over their armour.

"Were the Grey Wardens here, Commander?" Bethany wondered, breathlessly.

The Champion took a few steps forward. "Looks that way," she pronounced. "If we ever left." She nodded to the tapestry, in the centre of which had grown an orb of arcane energy. It did not respond to a probe of the elven Warden's magic.

As Merrill stepped into the room, she felt the pull of desire, the poison of sloth, and the sting of rage all tug at the edge of her senses. "There are spirits here," she informed her fellows , and she would have said more, but just then Bethany approached the orb.

It disappeared at her touch, and a disembodied voice echoed from somewhere nearby. "Be bound here for eternity," it rumbled, and the Hawkes' reaction was immediate. Brother and sister both darted into the room, even as the voice droned on . "Hunger stilled, rage smothered...desire dampened. Pride crushed." From their reactions, it wasn't too difficult for Merrill to deduce that she was listening to the late Malcolm Hawke. She saw that a smoking apparition relayed the message, fading away after it reported, "In the name of the Maker, so let it be."

Sure enough, just beyond where the apparition had been, a cell held a corporeal spirit. The same deceptively-thin veil of orange separated it from the rest of the chamber, and likely kept it bound from the Beyond, as well.

The Champion threw a glance Merrill's way. "Looks like we have to release the wards here to have any chance of getting out," she observed. "Do you agree?"

"I'm more interested in what the hell Father was doing with the Grey Wardens," Carver gruffed , looking from the Champion to his sister, and then to the enormous Warden banner hanging in the corner.

The elven Warden offered him a shrug. "The only way to find out is to look around here, and hopefully make the surface before all of you die."

Varric harrumphed. "Any plan that keeps me from dying in the Deep Roads is a good one in my book," he said. "Now, how do we get this demon outta that box?"

Freeing the demon proved far easier than the disembodied voice's vow implied; it only took Bethany's hands manipulating a few magical orbs in a particular way, which seemed to come to her instinctively, before the ephemeral barrier dissolved. Seeing the spirit beyond the Veil, however, proved far more difficult. It rose long-fallen skeletons and shades to its defence, and the effort of slaying the fleshless monsters drew the attention of yet more darkspawn. Only once the demon and its allies had been stilled did the ghostly voice resume.

"...I can do nothing about the Wardens' use of demons in this horrid place," Malcolm must once have said. "But I will have no one say any magic of mine ever released one into the world."

Bethany shared a look with her brother. "That's...that sounded like Father," she told him. "He must have been here, involved with the Wardens somehow."

Merrill closed her eyes, concentrating on the dissipating magic of the cell. "There are more demons imprisoned nearby," she pronounced, when she was certain. "Perhaps your father was involved in binding them, as well?" The Dalish elf asked, her eyes fluttering open to light upon the slightly-elder Hawke.

Bethany nodded, and gave the Champion a questioning glance. The elven Warden shrugged and left the unvoiced question up to her. "Alright," Bethany said, smiling tentatively at Merrill. "Father was here. I can almost see it in my mind," she exclaimed. "Do you think you can guide us?"

"I believe so," Merrill replied. "From the rear, at least," she added hastily , and did her best to direct them along the currents of magical energy which she knew must connect to another demonic prison. Along the way, they came to an atrium, of sorts; even this far underground, there appeared to be an open pit carved all the way from the surface, in the centre of which stood a stout tower. Most routes to the tower were inaccessible, either by having collapsed themselves or by being strewn with impassible debris. Merrill approached the chasm out of curiosity, and even her elven eyes couldn't see the base of the tower. " _Mythal_ ," she prayed. "I hope we don't have to go any farther down…" It was difficult to trace the ethereal threads in any other direction, however.

In the distance, another cluster of darkspawn scrambled out of the central tower, picking along one of the clear routes...which meant that the companions would have to face them eventually. Isabela clicked her tongue. "I prefer towers filled with coin to towers filled with darkspawn," she told no one in particular. "You know...for future reference ."

"Come on," the Champion urged them all, gesturing for Bethany to take point with her, lest the darkspawn find a more expedient route to them and take the group by surprise.

A few minutes and another darkspawn band later, the companions were haphazardly approached by a shambling human figure that had long been taken by the taint. It looked like it had once been a man, but now it was worse off than even the vilest dwarves had been on the surface. Both of the Wardens tensed up, and kept their weapons at the ready.

"La Clé," the  _shem'len_  ghoul spat. "Ont-ils trouvé? Les nains?" His voice was raspy, from the corruption and lack of use, but if Merrill spoke Orlesian at all, she thought he would be perfectly intelligible. "Je les ai entendu," the man continued, to the general consternation of all but the Champion .

The elven Warden inclined her head toward Bethany. "Elle l'a," she told him. "Mais mes compagnons ne parlent pas l'Orlesian," she went on, and Merrill was surprised to hear the timbre of her voice change. "Est-ce que tu parles la Langue du Roi ?"

The Champion's revelations seemed more than their interloper could bear for a few moments, and his milk-white eyes shot around them all, from the staff in Bethany's hand to the crossbow in Varric's grasp. "I...can," he said at last. "Little bit...enough. The dwarves looking, always...digging. Why do you bring the key here?"

Bethany considered the staff. "We weren't given much choice," she said in answer. "How is this a key?"

"Magic," the ghoul replied. "Old magic... _dans le sang_. It made the seals. It can unmake them."

The human Warden evidently needed no translation for the Orlesian bit, for she gasped. "And they made...the Wardens made Father use blood magic ?"

"This I know not," the ghoul protested. "You must leave...leave with the Key."

Bethany might have pointed out that their retreat had been magically blocked, but instead she took a closer look at the man. Somewhere beneath the grime of dirt and corruption, he wore steel armour with blue underpadding, which Merrill recognized as eerily similar to Bethany's and the Champion's. "Wait," Bethany breathed. "Are you a Grey Warden?"

"Grey?" He blinked, seeming confused for a moment, but then he nodded slowly. " _Oui_... _Commandeur du Gris_ , they once called me."

The Champion barked an incredulous laugh. "Larius?"

That surprised the tainted man. "...Yes!" He exclaimed. "That...was my name! Do I...know you?"

"No," the Champion rebuffed. "You were...you disappeared before I became a Grey Warden. I'm the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden."

"You are a grey one?" The man, Larius, sputtered. "Two grey ones? ...And one a Hawke? With the stink of magic?" His face twisted in sudden anguish, and he took a step back.

Bethany huffed a sigh. "We're after some demon called Corypheus," she allowed. "Have you heard of him?"

If her mere presence had upset him, Bethany's words threatened to send Larius into a paroxysm of terror. "Do not speak the name!" He stumbled in his haste to retreat, only catching himself against a boulder at the last minute. "He will hear you...and you have the Key. You will wake him, and then we shall all perish."

"Then how in the bloody Void do we get out of here?" Carver demanded.

Larius peered at the warrior as though from a great distance. "...Another Hawke," he mused, his fear evidently subsiding. "Yes...you have the Key. The Key to his death!" The man ambled closer, tentatively. "Yes, I can show you out," he exclaimed. "Yes...must go down. The only way out is down and in. Through the depths…"

And just like that, the ghoul scrambled away from them, calling for them to follow. He was so taken with the taint that darkspawn seemed to accept him as one of their own, so he pushed on whenever the party encountered another wave of the fiends that they had to cut through. Eventually they found an unbroken path to the central pillar, and they encountered a complicated ward scheme that Bethany had to disassemble.

As Merrill expected by then, their efforts were interrupted by another spirit, this one evidently a guardian of the seal . Only once the demon was defeated could the seal be properly broken, and then only with Bethany's blood in conjunction with the special staff that she and Larius called 'the Key'. On the next level down, Merrill guided them to two further magical prison cells, where Malcolm Hawke's voice spoke to them across the years yet again. When the final bound spirit had been taken care of, the Hawkes' father spoke of his disgust with the threats the Wardens had used against him, and his hope that Leandra and their yet-unborn child would never learn of the arts he'd been forced to employ.

If Bethany was upset over the Grey Wardens' ruthlessness, she did not express it, though whether it was pragmatism or simple deference to the Champion's lack of sympathy, Merrill couldn't tell. The Dalish elf did know, through Carver, that Malcolm had learnt blood magic in the Tevinter Imperium well before he'd ever come to Kirkwall, but it wasn't her place to mention that, and Carver seemed happy enough to keep mum on that subject.

And so the companions forged deeper into the shaft; every step seemed to make the Wardens a bit edgier, and occasionally their heads would jerk in unison, as though they both heard some kind of whisper that the others were deaf to . It couldn't simply be magical, for then Merrill would have sensed it as well. By the time they hit the very bottom of the passage, Carver himself had begun to hear the whispers. Along the way, they ran into another party in the sealed tunnels, entirely comprised of Grey Wardens. Their leader was a fairly powerful mage called Janeka, whom the Champion had apparently met in the Anderfels, from what Merrill could piece together of their Andish banter .

Janeka evidently desired to free Corypheus, convinced that she could control him with her substantial knowledge of blood magic. During her time in the subterranean Warden prison, she'd come to learn that Corypheus was an ancient darkspawn, perhaps one of the first, just as cunning and strong as any of the Tevinter magisters of old. The monster could be a devastating weapon against the darkspawn, perhaps even enough to end the Blights. Larius vehemently opposed her course of action, claiming that Corypheus was too powerful to control. Both of them looked to the Champion for support, but the elven Warden seemed content to defer to Bethany and Carver's judgment .

Bethany sided with Larius, which saw Janeka and her cohort flee, in an attempt to reach the sleeping Corypheus first. Larius assured the Hawkes that the monster could not be raised without the Key and the Hawkes' blood, so they took their time climbing the central tower. When they reached the very top, Janeka's party made a final plea, but at Bethany's second refusal they had nowhere else to retreat. Despite their bond as Grey Wardens, Bethany and her commander cut Janeka and her forces down, and the Champion showed no remorse in the act .

With nothing between them and the final seal, Larius urged them on, insisting that Bethany use the key and her own blood to raise the sleeping prisoner, so that it might be struck down once and for all. When the human Warden followed his instructions, however, all of Larius' assurances proved false; when the stone slab in the middle of the tower's highest floor cracked in half, Bethany had to leap backwards to avoid getting crushed by one of the two pieces.

Merrill felt a wave of mana so powerful that it nearly turned her stomach, and she had to lean her weight on her staff to keep her knees from buckling. With agonising slowness, a humanoid figure rose from the split stone, though its features were marred even more horribly than an ogre's. Patches of its flesh had hardened to an armour-like quality, and one could count every one of its bones, but its eyes glowed with an unquenchable strength even as it gathered its wits. When it spoke, it formed words that Merrill had only ever read in the very oldest of books .

"Be this some dream I wake from?" Its voice was surprisingly high and reedy, though it held tones of menace, nevertheless. The Champion's voice soon mingled with the monster's, as she provided their companions with a translation into the King's Tongue . "Was I in dwarven lands? Why seemed their roads so empty?" The Champion's words must have caught its attention, for its face twisted malevolently. "A slave dares speak at feet, and yet it does not kneel ?"

The monster, undoubtedly Corypheus, spread its arms wide. Merrill's legs weakened further, seemingly of their own accord, and it was only Carver's steadying hand that kept her from falling; the Champion's only concession to the ancient creature's magic was a brief pause in her own reporting of his words. "You, there," Corypheus growled, gesturing toward Bethany. "Serve you at Dumat's temple?" At the base of the tower, they had found a derelict altar, dedicated to the Old God. "Bring me hence," the monster insisted. "I must break words with First Acolyte."

None spoke for a long moment, until the Champion found her voice, and formed her words in Ancient Tevene. Merrill took it upon herself to speak the same in the common tongue. "Tevinter has fallen," the elven Warden assured Corypheus. "The Old Gods are gone. Do you claim title of Magister?"

Taken aback, likely by an elf addressing it so bluntly, Corypheus took a moment to form his thoughts. "I am as a god to you," it spat, and turned away from his interrogators to raise his mangled arms. "Dumat, lord," it pleaded with the air. "Tell me what manner of waking dream this is!" When no reply from the aether was forthcoming, though, Corypheus visibly sagged. "The light…" it wheezed. "We sought the golden light. You offered the power of the gods themselves...but it was black. Corrupt. Darkness."

Merrill's lips parted, surprised at this revelation, but the Champion's curiosity won the day. "You saw the Golden City," she breathed. "But it were already black when you arrived."

"Indeed," came the creature's rumbling voice. "Nothing, save the ravening dark…"

The elven Warden snorted. " _I knew it_ ," she snarled in her own tongue, to herself. "You saw the first darkspawn...you very well might be one of the first, yourself ."

Corypheus rasped two words through clenched teeth. "How...long?"

"More than a thousand years," Merrill supplied, surprising herself as she formed the words. "The world has changed much in your absence."

The monster regarded her fully for the first time, and the Dalish elf began to feel the gravity of her error. "Slaves see fit to overspeak their masters," it growled. "Gods be silent, and tongues strange. You claim this world changed...then I must change it back." Its twisted head fell back in supplication. "Come to me, Dumat," Corypheus begged. "Give me strength to vanquish!"

Merrill's hands shook as she brought her staff to bear; Varric already had Bianca leveled and ready. "This guy pulls a dragon out of his ass," the dwarf gruffed, pausing only to send a burst of arrows toward the risen Magister-come-darkspawn, "and I'm leaving!"

Despite the prospect of facing the ancient foe of elves and men that had combined into a single beast, Merrill found herself laughing, even as she ran for her life. With Carver and Isabela and Varric beside her, the Dalish elf knew she could not fail to fight valiantly...and, just possibly, survive .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to clafount at fanfiction.net for beta-reading. I hope everyone had a good holiday/solstice/whatever!


	33. Invictus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warden-Commander of Ferelden intends to make an official Kirkwall outpost for her forces, but she runs into a complication in the form of Knight-Commander Meredith. Neither woman will back down...but how far will they go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit violence in some detail.

The gleaming white stone of Kirkwall's Hightown was a welcome sight after the sojourn in the Vimmark Mountains. After a brutal fight, Corypheus had finally seen the wisdom of succumbing to blade and arrow, though Athadra suspected that such an ancient and cunning foe could not truly be killed as such . Even so, the Commander had her own plans to effect, which could proceed whether or not the monster yet lived in some form. One key aspect of those plans was to re-establish a Grey Warden outpost in Kirkwall, which was why she had brought Bethany back to the city.

After a day and a night spent recovering from the battle and their travels, Athadra and Bethany departed from the Hawke estate in the early hours of the morning, before Leandra could try to keep her daughter occupied. The Commander had been surprised to find Bodahn Feddic and his adopted son Sandal serving as stewards in the Hawkes' service, but the dwarves had been beside themselves with joy over the coincidence, and Bodahn's eagerness to reminisce about his contribution to the Blight served as ample motivation for Athadra to quit the estate just as the sun rose .

Nathaniel, one of Athadra's subordinates and perhaps her most unlikely ally, stood waiting for her and Bethany at the foot of the great flagstone steps which led to the courtyard of the Viscount's Keep. "Commander," he intoned, giving the elf a short bow. "I see your diversion into the mountains wasn't lethal." The man had every reason to loathe the Commander, for she'd been instrumental in his father's death, during the Blight...yet he'd spent years as a Grey Warden, and Athadra did not doubt his loyalty .

"We'll brief you later," she assured him, already mounting the first steps. "Is the Viscount expecting us?"

The mundane Warden nodded, his long raven hair catching in a stray breeze. "I spoke with the seneschal during your journey, Commander," Nathaniel told her. "Everything is arranged."

"Very good," Athadra allowed, just as they reached the level stone of the courtyard. Another flight of steps rose in the distance, which led to the Viscount's Keep itself. The courtyard was mired in shadow, owing to the early hour, but the elven Warden's eyes had little trouble discerning the space's occupants. In the courtyard proper, there were a handful of city guards in their distinctive armour, along with a few industrious citizens who evidently wished to play the political games Kirkwall had to offer...which Athadra herself must play, if she wished to affirm her order's presence in the city .

Yet suspicion tickled at the back of the Commander's mind, for when she and her companions reached the halfway point of the artificial valley, a flurry of motion erupted at either end. The guards and citizens melted away, and seven pairs of footsteps sounded in lockstep from the front gate of the Keep. Athadra's empty stomach clenched into a knot immediately; those footsteps were all made by templars, and they paused at the bottom of the stairs . More scraping from behind Athadra told her that the courtyard's Hightown entrance must be similarly straddled with the Chantry's sworn soldiers.

The Commander let out a long, slow breath. "An ambush," she pronounced, though she knew it was unnecessary. The elf glanced at Nathaniel and nodded to Bethany, and she didn't have to verbalise her orders. With only an instant's hesitation, the mundane Warden took the human mage by the arm, retreating to the deeper shadows, where they might make an escape .

From the sound of their footsteps, Athadra counted thirteen in all, with seven in front of her and six behind. Each of the soldiers before her wore the head-covering helmets that had led her to brand them  _tin-tops_...each of them save the woman in the centre, who instead wore a golden crown beneath a red cowl. "Your accomplices abandon you," she observed, her voice as frosty as her ice-blue eyes. "Who are you, and what are you doing in this city?"

Athadra's fingers flexed within her gauntlets, and she subconsciously thumbed the pewter ring she wore. "I am the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden," she enunciated, slowly. "Here to meet with Viscount Dumar, on issues of mutual interest. You will let me pass." It was stated as respectfully as the Commander could manage, but it fell just short of a request .

The woman's brow arched dangerously. "I have heard countless tales identical in scope, uttered by apostates on the run from justice."

Athadra knew that this was Meredith, the knight-commander of the templars in Kirkwall...and the most powerful person in the city. It was within Athadra's designs to change both of those facts, when the time was right. But it wasn't yet the right time, not just then. Thus, with as much patience as she could muster, the Commander gestured to her breastplate. "I wear the griffon, famous throughout Thedas for being the Grey Warden emblem," she pointed out. She might also have claimed the same of the other two Wardens, but Athadra could not risk drawing attention to them. "I promise you that if I were an imposter, the Grey Wardens would have already corrected that."  _By the cup or by the sword_ , she added mentally .

"So you say," the knight-commander retorted. "Yet your plate gleams as though it has never seen a day's use, much less the clamour of battle."

For the first time, Athadra rued the magic laced into the Warden-Commander plate; it reshaped the steel to fit the legitimate Commander, and also worked to heal any injury borne by the metal. She knew that Meredith was unlikely to take the statement at the Warden's word, however. "Look at my face, then," Athadra said, reaching up to sweep a curtain of hair behind her right shoulder. Her right cheek sported a fissure imparted by the dwarven crime lord, Jarvia, while her ear and neck bore the imprint of the Archdemon's fire.

The knight-commander did not seem impressed. "You have seen injury," she admitted. "This gives me more cause for suspicion, not less." Athadra fought the urge to roll her eyes as the woman continued. "You will surrender your arms and armour at once, and accompany me to the Gallows until your status can be verified. I will not risk an apostate infiltrating the viscount's mind."

A cold finger of fear trickled through Athadra's intestines, buried deep beneath her mounting calm . "And if I refuse?"

Meredith's face was unreadable, but her answer was entirely predictable. "Then you will die, as the Chantry demands of all unleashed mages."

The Commander couldn't keep the grimace from touching her lips; she would not,  _could_ not let herself be leashed again...even if she could believe it only temporary, until some word from Ferelden or the Anderfels, which she most certainly did not. An idea struck her, though, and she found her fingers clasping around her sword-belt. Wordlessly, the elven Warden dropped the leather strap, which held her sheathed longswords and twin daggers. A few moments later, the custom-made greatblade called Starfang joined its fellows, and the Commander began loosening the straps of her breastplate and gauntlets.

"Commander!" Nathaniel called, from her right. Athadra silenced him with a cutting look; her heart pounded away in her chest, even more insistently than if she faced four-dozen darkspawn. She didn't need her lieutenants second-guessing her and drawing attention to themselves. Already her veins ached, yearning to be both unleashed and filled, but that was a step too far . The steel of her armour clattered piece by piece to the flagstones, and as Athadra worked herself out of her boots, she fancied that she saw a faint light of approval in Meredith's eyes.

The woman was likely about to speak that approval when Athadra kept going, tugging off her padded leggings and easing out of her undertunic. The removal of those garments earned her a chorus of gasps from front and back, as her ambushers witnessed the true extent of her acquaintance with matters martial. Ten deep grooves were cross-cut into Athadra's back, a gift from her mentor, and the only reason she'd lived to have this confrontation ; at her front, a jagged cut ran crossways from her left collarbone over her sternum to end beneath her right breast, a relic of her confrontation with a sentient broodmother ; her flanks sported a pair of puckered indentations each, earned facing the Witch of the Wilds in dragon form. These were but the most significant-the Commander's flesh held a patchwork map of more minor scars, and a great many hurts had been healed without leaving a trace. Athadra removed every stitch of cloth from her form, so that none of her mementos could go unregarded, and then she stepped away from the mass of steel that she'd worn. Her caramel-coloured flesh prickled in the mid-morning chill.

"Who are you?" Meredith repeated, and for the first time, the Commander sensed uncertainty in the woman's tone.

The elf inclined her head just enough for her hair to fall forward, partially shielding her face. She could feel the templars' eyes dancing over her skin, and she had ample reason to fear and loathe that outcome, but she tried to use her experiences to fuel her resolve. "My name is Athadra," she allowed. "I am the Champion of Redcliffe, the Slayer of Loghain, and the Commander of the Grey."

A moment passed, during which Athadra sensed there might be some angle that she could use to reason with the knight-commander, but Meredith's mind seemed to close against that opportunity with sudden hostility. "All claims unproven," she declared. "Your ostentatious display belies them, in any case. My templars will not fall prey to the temptation you offer,  _mage_." She looked to the templar on her right flank. "Gideon, apprehend this woman. You may use lethal force if she resists."

It took the templar nearly a minute to gather his courage, but his faltering steps quickly brought him within half a dozen paces of the naked mage. "You must c-come with me, madam," he offered in a tinny voice, echoed through his helmet. He sounded little more than a child.

"How old are you, boy?" Athadra inquired, her voice just loud enough to reach his ears.

The question seemed to take the man aback. "S-seventeen," he admitted. "But I've been training since I was a b-boy."

The Commander sucked in a breath. "Fuck the gods," she lamented through clenched teeth. "You got a mother and father, or are you an orphan?"

"I've a mother," the boy said, a bit more readily. "She became a sister in the Chantry," he informed her, but did not explain the circumstance further.

Athadra closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Listen to me...Gideon, were it?" She opened her eyes in time to see the templar recruit's nod jostle his helmet. "I'm going to give you this one chance to walk away, here and now. Go back to your mother, tell her you love her." The elf forced a dry swallow down. "If you do not, I will kill you," she warned him, though there was no boast in her tone.

Meredith made a scathing snort from her perch at the foot of the stairs. "Cease your whispering and either restrain or kill the apostate," she commanded him. "You will not suffer the consequences of failure very easily, Gideon ."

The Commander felt like cursing aloud, for Meredith's message tipped the boy's wavering scales. Rather than acceding to Athadra's advice, the boy unshouldered his shield and drew his sword. "No more questions,  _mage_ ," he growled. "You will come to heel."

"Just one more," Athadra pleaded, and she continued when he hesitated. "Do you pray?"

"Of course I do," the lad shot back, holding his sword almost-but not quite-steadily.

Athadra relaxed her muscles and did her best to let go of her mana, so that when the boy and his fellows inevitably tried giving her a Holy Smite, her magic would flee without offering her further injury. "Then you'd best get to it," she sighed. The elf could just make out the gleam of the boy's eyes through the slit in his helmet, and she counted half-a dozen heartbeats before she nodded. "Time's up, lad."

The boy drew his sword back as though Athadra were a wooden figure in the practice yard. Unfortunately for him, the Commander was bone and blood and well-honed muscle, and unburdened by the weight of her arms and armour, she could move with breathtaking quickness. Before the templar had even begun his downstroke, Athadra surged forward, catching herself on his hip and elbow. She used her momentum to swing her body up around his back, her left leg slipping overtop the boy's helmet. With a single jerk of her thigh, the elf pulled the steel bucket up and off of the lad's head, even as her hands fixed on the hilt of his sword. She yanked the blade from his grasp as she came down, and she broke her fall by plunging the sword down the front of the luckless boy's neck.

Blood fountained as he collapsed in a gurgling mess, but Athadra maintained her feet, and she tore the sword from his flesh with a grunt. In all, she'd counted four heartbeats since her toes had first left the stones . The rest of the platoon of templars seemed too shocked by the sudden turn of events to respond, so the Commander consciously slowed her breathing and actively disengaged with her mana as much as possible. Her blood-coloured eyes fixed upon Meredith, and she slowly raised her stolen sword to point at the woman, the steel still dripping crimson.

"Seize her, you fools!" The knight-commander shrieked. "Do your duty!"

The elven Warden took a single step forward; that, combined with their commanding officer's exhortations, jostled the templar warriors into action. Athadra's lungs emptied with the force of invisible impacts from all sides; at least half of the templars had targeted her with Holy Smites or similar attacks, designed to turn her magical energy against her. Despite her precaution, the elf could not keep all of her mana from twisting in her nerves, and she staggered to one knee under the assault.

Yet the Commander did not need her arcane talents to bring death to the silver-clad soldiers , as she'd just proved with the poor boy, Gideon. As he breathed his last guttering gasps, Athadra reclaimed her feet and advanced another step toward Knight-Commander Meredith. "You'll have to do better than that," she spat, as three templars warily advanced on her front. "If you want to make old bones." Each step she took brought Athadra closer to their swords, but farther away from the still-warm blood of the recruit, away from the temptation that demanded she replace her stolen magic with the lad's life while it still clung to his corpse .

Despite their training, their numbers, and their armour, the three assailants hesitated just out of swinging range. Likely, they had never encountered a mage capable of raising a butter knife in her own defence, much less a hardened warrior. "Please," came a more seasoned voice, from a woman. "You will not be ill-treated in the Circle here, and we can work out this misunderstanding with no further bloodshed."

"I told the boy to leave, to run back to his mother," Athadra informed the armoured woman. "He chose death, and in so choosing, he's sealed your fates as well." She brought up her sword, but did not strike out until the three templars had drawn their own. Grinning at the sound of steel ringing free, the Commander crossed blades with the woman who'd offered peace.

The other two templars fanned out to either side as the two women danced, seeking to flank Athadra, but the elven Warden beat a lateral retreat to her left; it put her within striking distance of two warriors, but her borrowed blade swung in tight arcs, the steel sparking off of her assailants' weapons too quickly for them to find an opening. Even so, Athadra knew that if she did not get herself a left-hand blade, her bravado would count for little. With a wordless battlecry, she planted her foot firmly in the female templar's breastplate; though the human woman was larger, Athadra's legs were used to carrying more weight, and so the templar stumbled back.

That earned the Commander a half-second, in which she turned her fury onto the unfortunate leftmost templar. His swordwork was proficient, even gifted, and he used his shield wisely to guard his left flank. But his training wasn't enough; the sole focus of Athadra's assault for a handful of heartbeats, he could not react quickly enough when the elf rolled beneath his shield, hamstringing him through a vulnerable joint in his armour as she went. He cried out in surprise and agony, but it was cut short when the Commander bowled him forward and snatched up the sword from his fumbling fingers. She grasped it firmly in her left hand, and used it to parry a blow from the female templar, who'd recovered from her stumble and joined with the third of her fellows.

Athadra backed into the mouth of an alcove that probably didn't have an exit, but that removed their ability to flank her effectively. With a sword in each hand the elf was twice as dangerous, even if the blades were shorter than she was used to. Just about every other clash of steel comprised her blades striking against the templars' armour or shields, rather than their weapons, and if it weren't for the advantage of her position, the Commander would have driven both of them back. She just needed a distraction, something to make either one of them miss a step.

It came in the form of an unexpected scream from the centre of the courtyard, where she'd dropped her arms and armour. The jolt that passed through the male and female templar in front of her let Athadra surge forward; she inverted her grip, holding her swords underhand as she brought her arms together, and then she plunged the blades into the seams where the templars' breastplates met the spineplates. The woman died first, since the steel must have struck her heart, but blood gouted around each wound as the templars fell. Athadra's naked flesh was strewn with liquid life from both sides in the space of a breath, and the coppery taste on her lips nearly drove her over the edge .

A quick glance told the elf the source of her fortune; two of the rearguard templars had ventured forward to inspect her armour. Unfortunately for them, it was enchanted so that if any but a true Commander of the Grey touched it, the metal would grow interminably hot in short order. If the illicit contact came from a civilian, the reaction should be so sudden and intense that the offending limb would not survive the encounter. The Commander saw that her plate glowed white, and the two templars' gauntlets were red, both from their own heat and the blood that seeped through the melting steel. Neither would retain the use of their hands, even if they were lucky enough to survive .

Undaunted by the sight, Athadra turned to the last of her immediate attackers, from whom she'd stolen her left-hand blade. He'd tossed off his helmet and had crawled nearly to the foot of the steps, but she closed the distance with a few hurried strides. Meredith and her two bodyguards evidently gave credence to discretion, for they backed halfway up the stairway as Athadra drew near to the grey-haired templar who even then tried to reach his superiors.

"No," he begged, as the elven Warden flipped him over. "N-" His protest was truncated as Athadra's left-hander plunged into the soft flesh beneath his chin, and she wrenched until the steel broke through to his spinal column and the light dimmed behind his eyes.

The Commander's sword returned from its fleshy sheath with a squelch, and she sneered at the knight-commander through clenched teeth. "Do you believe me now?"

But the elven Warden did not wait for a response. Instead she wheeled around and stalked across the blood-soaked flagstones. More quasi-magical attacks caused Athadra to stagger, from the four able-bodied templars who blocked her exit, but the elf was implacable in her advance. The two templars whose arms had been ruined by their curiosity struggled to reach their feet, but the weight of their armour and the state of their limbs made it all too easy for Athadra to reach them in time. She didn't even grunt with the effort of kicking off their helmets and opening their throats, and she left them twitching in their last throes as she stepped toward the remaining rearguard.

These templars weren't so young as Gideon had been, but the flush of youth gave them confidence and a bit of experience made them wary. The men formed up into a squad, evidently seeking to block the Commander's exit, which suited her fine. She brought the attack with as much ferocity as she could muster, her swords flashing almost too quickly for her to see, much less the human defenders.

Rather than breaking up to skirt her, as the first squad had done, these templars held their line with admirable discipline. Their feet ceded inches in the face of Athadra's assault, and none of the men acted rashly. The Commander's muscles burned with the effort they'd sustained and the Holy Smites she'd suffered, and the templars seemed to know that it was only a matter of time before she made a mistake.

The templar on her right saw such an opening when both of her swords were engaged to her left, and he nearly shattered her shoulder with the force of his shield-bash. Athadra jumped back and to her left to dodge the stab which must follow, and somehow she managed to keep hold of her right-hand blade. With a snarl of frustration, and perhaps a touch of fear, the Commander leapt forward. The sheer madness of the move must have taken the two inner templars off their guard, for they were just a fraction of a second too slow to block the pommel-strikes which she gave their helmets.

Twisting, Athadra pushed the templars back to either side, and the line was broken. All four scrambled, trying to form a united front, but the elven Warden kept herself in their midst. A cut opened up on her left hip, but the sting revitalised her, and she answered it by lancing her sword through the eye-slit of one of her dancing partners. The move cost her a gash on her right arm, and so she abandoned the blade to the falling templar.

Every breath began and ended with a raw-throated scream, and every parry of her shortsword produced a grunt. Sweat and blood, both hers and her enemies', mottled her scarred flesh. Yet she had reduced the number of her ambushers by half, and the three that posed an immediate threat were fighting for their lives just as certainly as she did. With more luck than nimbleness, the Commander dodged a swipe from one of the templars' shields, and by instinct she stepped between the sheet of steel and the soldier who held it. She'd given her sword over to her right hand by then, which left her left free to catch the man's right wrist. Athadra held against all of the templar's strength, and she once again had cause to bless the Sten, who'd granted her the muscles to fight without the need to rely upon her magic. The Commander repeated her earlier trick, driving her sword through the slit in the man's helmet, but she made sure to keep hold of her sword as he fell around her.

Snatching up the dying man's blade returned her to form, and the two remaining templars apparently decided that they'd been overmatched by the single elf. They broke and tried to run toward their three fellows who hovered near the Keep's entrance, but one slipped on a puddle of his fallen colleagues' blood and was not long in following them into the Void. The other nearly made it back to her armour before Athadra caught up with him, but many hours of studying Kirkwall's distinctive templar armour meant that the Commander knew just where to stab in order to see the man put down, as w ell.

Athadra limped the short distance to her weapons, tossing the now-blunted templar blades aside. In their place, she took up Starfang's hilt, and felt her mana gutter in response; it had been crafted to channel magic like any proper staff, but it held an edge as fine as any warrior's, and veins of blue-green lyrium glowed throughout the steel. Her shoulders heaved with the force of her breaths, but after a moment's rest, the Commander brought her two-handed greatblade to bear and resumed her slow march toward the knight-commander.

"...She is but  _one woman_ ," Meredith's voice resolved, as the ringing in Athadra's ears subsided. "A maleficar, using the blood of your fellow templars against them !"

A laugh bubbled through the Commander's gasping breath. "I've done no such thing," she countered.  _At least not yet_ , she reasoned, mentally. "Yet if your last two pets want to…" Her breath hissed as she sucked it in. "...come and die," she managed, "they're welcome to it."

A brief argument ensued; the knight-commander's lieutenants were clearly opposed to throwing their lives away on the elf who claimed, with ever-increasing likelihood, to be the Hero of Ferelden herself. Meredith's face was a mixture of outrage and, Athadra fancied, just a bit of terror. "If you shirk your duty," the woman pronounced, "I will see your heads from your shoulders myself!"

By then Athadra was mounting the bottommost steps. Meredith drew her own sword, a two-hander made out of the purest red steel Athadra had ever seen...it faintly glowed, and the Commander sensed a sinister energy emanating from the weapon. With their commanding officer at their backs and their only exit in front, however, the two templars decided to take their chances; without a word, they each took off at odd angles, evidently seeking to flee both sword-wielding women.

The elven Warden intercepted the man to her right; he hadn't even drawn his weapon, such was his desire to flee. Athadra swung Starfang with such force that the templar's flank buckled, crushing his ribs. Several more bones broke audibly as he fell down the unforgiving steps, and it was clear that he would not rise from the bottom. Meredith was apparently as good as her word, for she herself had cut down the other unlucky man before he'd taken more than three stairs . Aside from a small army of guards who'd amassed in front of the Keep's doors, the two women now stood alone in the courtyard, facing one another warily.

The knight-commander's ice-coloured eyes narrowed. "You have murdered twelve of my men,  _mage_ ," she exclaimed, though she did not move to strike out...for the moment, at least.

Starfang's tip swerved several inches, tracking Athadra's breaths, and she chose not to press forward, either. "You killed them," the Commander rebuffed, inclining her head to the body to her left. "Him directly, and the rest by pitting them against me."

"It was their duty," Meredith insisted. "Our order is tasked with saving this city from dangerous mages, and saving mages from the cancer of their curse."

"And you can tell that to their families," Athadra pointed out, her lips turning into a grimace. "But you  _will_  let me pass, and you will never harass me nor anyone under my protection again."

The Commander thought that her pronouncement might provoke Meredith into attacking, and the knight-commander looked to prove the elven Warden correct, but somehow she found the resolve to hold back. "And what shall you do if I do not abide your request?"

Athadra slowly lowered her swordpoint, her breaths coming a touch more easily. Her lips curled into a low-burning grin. "I'm here on Grey Warden business. If you stand astride my plans, I will see that the First Warden knows the reason why...and he will bring the full weight of the Anderfels to bear against this city."

"You bluff," the knight-commander insisted, though a shadow of doubt passed across her features.

"Perhaps," the Commander conceded. "Perhaps the First Warden will only send enough Wardens to let me cut through the Gallows to kill you myself." She swallowed with some difficulty and jerked her head toward the courtyard, where a dozen bodies lay cooling. "I am but one Grey Warden. Imagine what a cohort of twenty of my like could do to your order ." The elf had caught her breath, and now stood straight. "Now stand aside, Knight-Commander Meredith. I willn't say it again."

For the space of a breath, it seemed that Meredith might gainsay Athadra one last time, but at the last moment the knight-commander relented. "Very well," she acceded, re-sheathing her odd sword and taking a deliberate sidestep. "But if your purpose here gives me cause for suspicion, I will be forced to involve the Divine."

_And I will kill her, too,_  Athadra thought to herself.  _If she forces me to_. But she did not rise to the bait; instead, the elven Warden limped, naked and bleeding and exhausted, to the top of the Keep's stone stairway. The sun was just reaching its zenith at her back, and she'd delayed the viscount for far too long .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to my beta-reader, clafount, for her dedication and general awesomeness!


	34. Shattered Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill finally gathers the Hawkes, and the Warden-Commander, to complete her magical mirror. It doesn't turn out as well as she'd hoped it would, however.

 

Nine days had passed since the Warden-Commander of Ferelden had painted the flagstones in front of the Viscount's Keep a deep crimson, and Bethany had heard tell that some of the stains were too stubborn for the Keep's servants. Though she had not attended the Commander's meeting with Viscount Dumar, the human mage knew that it hadn't gone terribly well. It was clear that the Grey Wardens were still not welcome in Kirkwall, though Meredith had been surprisingly true to the tenuous peace that the Commander's display had earned her. Perhaps, as the Commander suspected, the templars were merely rebuilding; on top of the massacre, the order had also recently lost upwards of thirty members in the lyrium-smuggling tunnels beneath the harbour, if Varric's report of a hundred slain enemies was to be taken at its usual value.

Yet the Commander had not taken her leave of the city, despite the lack of official sanction from the viscount's office. As Bethany stalked through the morning mists after her, into the Alienage, the junior Warden could guess why...the elf desired to see Merrill's mirror come to life. Bethany was curious, herself, so she didn't mind the Commander's paranoia. All four Wardens in Kirkwall marched together, the two mages flanked by Nathaniel and Faenathiel, and they all wore the griffon-patterned armour of their order. Bethany's belt weighed heavily on her left hip; an off-handed comment more than a week before had made the Commander insist that the human mage take to learning the sword, so that mundanes might be less apt to realise that she had the touch of magic .

Bethany's shoulders were still sore from the intense practice the Commander had kept her to, though the human knew better than to complain. She'd heard stories about the Commander's own training at arms, during the last Blight; the elf's determination to build her strength and skill had even led her to taking the lash, and as the Commander proved so recently, she no longer needed to fear a templar's talents. Bethany had to admit that she was tempted by that prospect, though she was grateful that the Commander's expectations for her recruits were not quite so demanding as those she held for herself. Her blade was a two-handed longsword, three fingers wide at the base, crafted for agility and reach. It did not excite her mana as Malcolm's staff did, but the Commander assured Bethany that when she was ready, they would transfer the staff's magical essence to the sword or one very much like it. For the nonce, she still had her crimson-tinged staff strapped across her shoulders .

The Commander drew up short just outside of Merrill's hovel. "You two wait outside," she told Faenathiel and Nathaniel. "Make sure we're not interrupted."

With a mumbled "Yes, Commander," both of the mundane Wardens fell into place to either side of the door. Bethany idly wondered if Faenathiel had seen her mother since she'd returned to Kirkwall, but before the human could ask, the Commander rapped loudly on Merrill's door.

The elven civilian threw it open a handful of heartbeats later. "I didn't think you'd come so early," she exclaimed, excitement lacing her tone. Bethany saw, with some sense of approval, that she still wore the gleaming white armour that Carver had helped her procure. "Please come in, and forgive me for the mess…"

"We've seen worse," the Commander proclaimed, after stepping into the front room. Bethany followed, blinking slowly to let her eyes adjust to the low light. The human shut the door behind her.

Merrill didn't question why the others did not join the mages, if she'd noticed the mundanes at all. Instead she latched the door securely. "Carver's already here," the elf informed them.

"I doubt he ever left," Bethany blurted out, sharing a knowing glance with the elven Warden. The Commander scanned the cluttered room until she found another entryway, which Bethany suspected led to Merrill's sleeping quarters. She'd been in the hovel once or twice, before venturing underground and becoming a Grey Warden, but Bethany had never gone beyond the sitting room before. "Is my brother through there?"

Merrill picked over a bit of clutter. "He is," she confirmed, gesturing for her guests to follow.

The bedchamber was smaller than Bethany expected, even judging by the room she'd had in Lothering, and it was filled with a simple cot bed and two ramshackle bookshelves that overflowed with codices and scrolls. Carver was sitting on the bed, but he stood up at their entrance, stifling a yawn with the back of his fist.

"You're up early, Beth," the warrior managed, after giving the Commander a respectful nod.

Bethany shrugged, a frown tugging at her lips. "At least I slept," she chided her brother, when he began rubbing his eyes. "And you make an awful window, Carver." The man's broad shoulders kept all but the top corners of the magical mirror from her view.

Carver winced and took a step to one side, coming to rest beside Merrill. "It's very nearly finished," he told them, unnecessarily.

Neither Bethany nor the Commander had any words for a reply. The mirror was easily as tall as Carver, framed in glittering wood as though it were carved from a gilded tree. The mirror's bottom even had gnarled roots spreading out to give it balance. The glass was perfectly clear, save for a single spider-silk strand that stretched horizontally across the very middle of the pane.

Bethany's heart ticked faster as she took in her own reflection; she saw herself in stunning detail, though she could see nothing else in the looking-glass, not even the doorway directly behind her. It seemed as though she glowed from within, and she felt a subtle  _thrum_  pulling at her mana from somewhere deep inside herself.

Of its own accord, her right boot lifted off of the ground and rocked forward, but before she could plant it on the floor, the Commander's fingers closed around Bethany's upper arm. A sudden flash of pain seared over her skin at the contact, through her armour, and Bethany's flinch tore her gaze from the mirror. As soon as she broke eye-contact, however, the pain in her arm faded to a dull ache...and when she looked at the glass again, she saw nothing at all within .

"Be on your guard," the Commander's battle-roughened voice sounded. "This is ancient magic, unseen by the world in a dozen Ages or more." Her blood-coloured eyes moved from Bethany to Merrill. When her lips parted once more, the ancient Elvish tongue fell out. T he human mage only understood the word  _el'u'vi'an_ , which she knew referred to the mirror that had so enraptured her a few moments before.

Merrill nodded vigorously and replied in kind, seeming slightly affronted.

The Commander inclined her head. "See it done, then," she pronounced. The elven Warden took a step backward, placing herself between Bethany and the mirror.

The Dalish elf hesitated for just a moment, throwing a questioning glance to Carver. "You should step back, too," she warned him. "It might...not like having a  _shem'len_  nearby."

"I haven't had any trouble before," the warrior protested. "And I've been glad to help."

Merrill nodded. "You've helped a great deal," she admitted. "Even so…"

"Get your arse back here, Knifey," the Commander barked, before Carver could put voice to the protest that Bethany knew waited at the tip of his tongue.

The warrior's chest swelled for half a heartbeat before his pride seemed to him , and he heaved a sigh. "Alright," he conceded. "But you be careful," he insisted, taking the Dalish elf by her shoulders for a moment. "And I'll be right behind you." At Merrill's nod, he moved to take up his two-handed greatblade from the corner, and he fell in beside Bethany.

Merrill produced a thin, ancient-looking knife whose handle seemed wrought from a gnarled antler. She let out a slow breath and mumbled a few Elvish words; Bethany closed her eyes, trying to listen to their cadence. "... _Mythal, ar'an nuve na amu eth'ena la'ith'ar.._."

Bethany guessed that it was a prayer, since the Commander's silence was utter, though the elven Warden had to have understood every word. When the human mage's eyes fluttered open, she saw that Merrill had drawn the knife across her palm, and coated the silvery blade in blood. The Dalish elf kept speaking in her mystical mother tongue, and she stepped closer to the mirror, turning her back on her guests.

Slowly, Merrill drew the bloodied knife over the crack in the mirror's glass. The quality of her voice changed, becoming more practiced and less nervous, though no less heartfelt, and Bethany sensed the Dalish elf's mana stirring. As Merrill brought her blade across the mirror, the seam healed itself, and after a few moments the glass stood restored once more.

Everyone in the room held their breath for a few heartbeats. Once the last flickers of Merrill's mana smoothed away, nothing seemed to happen. Then, slowly, the clouds within the mirror began to swirl noticeably. Bethany felt the urge to step forward once again, but the Commander stood firmly astride her path, the elven Warden's presence enough to keep both humans rooted to the spot.

All at once, the milky clouds in the mirror dissolved into shadow. Bethany's teeth clenched as she felt, rather than heard, a sinister chuckle...it resounded deep in her chest, and left her veins tingling with a familiar longing. Something about the absolute blackness in the mirror reminded her of the Deep Roads, and she shuddered as she remembered how fulfilled it made her to stand in them, surrounded by monsters.

Merrill stood transfixed, even as the character of the darkness changed. The room's already-low light seemed to dim even further, and the gleaming wood surrounding the mirror's glass began to grow dull; Bethany realised that the darkness was spreading out from the mirror with surprising quickness. "Look out!" The human mage called, her heart raising up into her throat.

The Commander swore in at least three languages as she lunged forward, grabbing the Dalish elf around the middle and hurling her backward. "Get them out of here," she demanded, reaching back for Starfang's hilt just as the vibration in Bethany's chest finally found her ears. "Now!"

The human Warden blinked back her shock and moved to obey. "You heard the Commander," she called, rounding on the two civilians. Merrill still seemed dazed, and Carver was too concerned with her to bother resisting overly much when Bethany pushed them bodily from the bedchamber. "Don't make me set your arses on fire," she grunted through clenched teeth, as her blood pulled at her veins. Beneath the trilling drumbeat of her heart, Bethany thought she could hear a faint music coming from behind her, even as she stumbled through the sitting room, urging her brother and Merrill on ahead of her.

Merrill's fingers fumbled at the intricate latches that held the door closed, and precious seconds bled away, the song in Bethany's mind growing more insistent with every passing breath. "Step back," she ordered, and she might have remarked on how quickly her companions moved to obey her were it not for the urgency of passing through the door. With a steadying breath, Bethany drew her father's staff and froze the door solid. Quickly she summoned a fireball and shattered the icy barrier.

The mundane Wardens already had their weapons ready. Bethany ushered Merrill and Carver past them. "Go to the estate," she urged. "As fast as your feet will carry you."

Carver drew up between Faenathiel and Nathaniel. "Where are you going to go?"

A rapturous chord opened up in the song, and it was all Bethany could do not to drop to her knees at its beauty. "Go," she reiterated, getting a firmer grip on her staff. "And rouse the city guard on your way." When her brother looked to hesitate further, she sent a minor fireball at his feet. "Get out of here, now! Both of you!"

Her tone left no room for compromise, and Bethany was relieved to see her twin capitulate. Only once he and the Dalish elf had disappeared up the alleyway did the human mage turn back toward the music. "Shall we see what mischief the Commander is making?" By now, they could hear her curses and clashing steel.

Nathaniel's frown told Bethany that he could hear the music, as well. "She'd never let us live it down if she had to kill  _another_  monster all by herself," he deadpanned, shouldering his bow and drawing his daggers. "With me." Bethany and Faenathiel, the two junior Wardens, followed the rogue into the maelstrom.

* * *

Light fitfully filtered through the apartment's north-facing windows, chasing away the last vestiges of Aveline's sleep. She rolled over on the small bed, intending to drape her arm over her husband, only to find an empty space beside her. Instantly alert, the guard-captain sat up, unmindful that the sheet slid from her naked shoulders. After a moment's panic, Aveline scolded herself, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. As she listened, she heard the sound of a cloth being wrung out into a washbasin in the next room over, and her heart crawled out of her throat.

Dragging the sheet from her bed, the guard-captain draped it about herself like a shawl as she rose to her feet. When she reached the doorway to the privy chamber, she saw that Donnic was already halfway through shining his teeth. He'd already scrubbed his body, or at least every inch that she could see.

"Morning, love," he called before her eyes had made the trek up his spine. He offered her a smile through the burnished copper that served as a mirror and then finished wiping out his mouth with the vinegared rag, his grimace shining through the poor reflection of the metal. When he was finished, the guardsman turned, and the unabashed delight in his expression made Aveline's throat go dry.

"Good morning," the guard-captain offered, her cheeks heating just a bit as she felt his eyes give her a quick once-over, and then a much slower twice-ov er. She couldn't complain, since she'd done the same to him when his back was turned, after all. "It would've been even better if I hadn't had to get out of bed," Aveline pointed out. It was their rest day, after all, the one day a month that they could spend every moment of together.

Donnic stepped closer, reaching up to tuck an unruly hank of Aveline's unbrushed hair back behind her ears. "I know, my love," he assured her. "And I plan on making it up to you by not leaving the bed for several more hours, yet."

There was a hunger in her husband's eyes that sent tingles up Aveline's thighs. "I'd have thought you'd be too exhausted after last night," she pointed out, shrugging her shoulder and-entirely accidentally, of course-letting the bedsheet slip down to her elbow.

"I suppose I'm still grateful to be alive," Donnic breathed, the lust in his voice cut with sincerity. "If she hadn't stopped at Meredith…"

Aveline needed no hints about who  _she_  was. The Commander of the Grey and Champion of Redcliffe had been the talk of the barracks for nigh on two weeks, now, and she'd been a thorn in the guard-captain's side for just as long. She shook her head, causing the newly-captive strands of her hair to fall into her face once more, and when Donnic moved to secure them again she grabbed his wrist. The bedsheet fell out of her grasp, whispering as it pooled about her feet. "That fool Bran wants me to arrest her, still," the guard-captain breathed as she tugged her husband back toward the bed.

He snorted through his nose, following her lead as surely as though they were facing down bandits. "Well, she  _did_  bury that sword of hers in the floor between his feet, when he asked her to relinquish it," he observed. "Still haven't managed to fix the hole, either."

"I think her threatening to gut him if he so much as mentioned her name to Meredith again has more to do with it," Aveline mused, just as she sat heavily on the straw-and-feather mattress. " That, and seeing Viscount Dumar whilst wearing no more than we are now." She arched a ginger brow at him. "Unless  _that's_  what's got you so excited… "

The mixture of panic and amusement on Donnic's face was well-worth the tease, and Aveline was about to balm it with a kiss, when an unexpected knock sounded at the front door. As captain of the Kirkwall city guard, Aveline was afforded private rooms in the Viscount's Keep itself, in a private wing that did not allow casual visitors. Even so, she did her best to ignore the prospective interruption. Her chin brushed against Donnic's stubble right as another knock pounded insistently enough to rattle the wood. "Oh, by Andraste's rotten milk teeth ," the guard-captain swore, and then called more loudly, "Two minutes!"

She and Donnic used nearly every second of those two minutes to put themselves in some kind of order. It wasn't enough time for them to don armour, but today was their rest day, so tunics and trousers would have to do. Dragging her fingers through her unkempt hair, Aveline unlatched the door and threw it open. "What is it, guardswoman?"

Guardswoman Siobhan snapped into a salute, swallowing with obvious difficulty. Evidently she'd run from the Keep's entrance, and perhaps farther. "Darkspawn, Captain," she managed at last. "In the Alienage. " After another few breaths, the woman schooled her lungs enough to add, "Thought you should know."

Aveline's brows knitted so forcefully that she might have been able to plant tubers in the furrows. "Darkspawn," she repeated, slowly. "In the Alienage." The very idea was preposterous-the Alienage was nestled near the heart of Lowtown, surrounded by high walls, with only one gate in or out...a gate that was often locked of a night, for the elves' own safety. "Where did they come from?"

"Don't know, Captain," Siobhan replied, still out of breath. "Them Grey Wardens is already there, fighting them off, but there's  _so many_ …" She shook her head, and when her next breath hitched, Aveline saw that the woman was bleeding from a wound in her left flank.

She grew suspicious that the woman's sweat and fatigue hadn't merely come from the run. "You should get that looked at," the guard-captain said in clipped tones. "I will get dressed and rouse the barracks, guardswoman." She jerked her head to emphasise the command, and a flood of relief hit her when Siobhan retreated without complaint.

It took nearly all Aveline possessed to keep from slamming the door, and she leaned heavily against it, burying her face in her hands. "Oh, Maker," she lamented. " Why is it always darkspawn?"

A pair of strong arms found the guard-captain's shoulders. "It's alright," Donnic insisted. "We'll beat them back."

She looked at her husband through her fingers, but her vision blurred with sudden tears; rather than Donnic's strong jaw and auburn-coloured hair, Aveline saw Wesley's face as it had been upon his death, waxen and hollow, with veins of black foulness forking through his flesh. " _We_  won't do anything," the guard-captain growled, blinking the vision away. Her arms wrapped around Donnic so tightly that, were he a weaker man, she might honestly have feared breaking his spine.

Yet Donnic was strong, and foolish, besides. "Don't talk like that, love," he implored her. "You've faced the monsters before-"

"And I will again," she broke in, and then silenced his lips with a forceful kiss. "But you will not ," Aveline insisted, pressing her forehead against his.

"But-" The man's hold on her did not let up, even as confusion registered in his eyes.

Aveline overrode him once more. "I've already lost one husband to those bastards," she reminded him. "By the Void and everything wrought by the Maker's hands, they will not have another." Slowly, deliberately, she extricated herself from the embrace that she never truly wanted to leave. "You will not leave this room until I tell you that it's safe to do so."

Donnic's eyes narrowed. "I don't think-"

"I don't care," the guard-captain declared, already moving to her armour stand and wrestling with her equipment. "I'll lock the bloody door if I have to," she insisted. "And if I find out you've gone through the window, I'll break your legs myself."

The sheer earnestness of her declaration must have been too much for the man, for he barked a laugh. "As you say, Captain," Donnic affirmed. But then his smile fell, and he closed the distance between them. "Just make sure that  _you_  come back to me, too," he implored her, even as his practiced hands moved to help her into her armour.

Wesley's death had broken Aveline of making that kind of vow, so instead, she folded her husband into another bone-crushing hug once she'd secured her gauntlets and greaves. "I love you, Donnic Hendyr," she affirmed, as earnestly as she'd spoken those words on their wedding day, far too recently.

"And I you, Aveline Vallen," he replied automatically, and the serenity in his face gave the guard-captain chills to think that she could have found such attachment again. "But," Donnic went on, a grimace twisting over his lips, "I think you're breaking my ribs…"

Aveline relented her embrace. "Please, don't leave," she begged. "Promise me."

The guardsman drew up to his full height, only an inch or two taller than her, and clapped his fist over his heart. "I shall not vacate this room without your leave, Captain," he intoned. "You...take care of yourself," he pleaded, all of the serenity gone from him. "Come back to me, love."

"I'll try, Donnic," Aveline swore, leaning in for one last kiss.

And then she was gone, stalking through the Keep, a woman on a mission to save the city which she'd made her home .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pleased, and a bit wistful, to report that I've finished writing Birds of Prey. Anything else is just editing at this point. So, over the next twenty-five days, I'll continue to give you daily updates. Thanks so much to clafount at fanfiction.net for being such a wonderful beta-reader, and thanks to everyone who's commented, followed, or just read and enjoyed this story so far.


	35. Black Swan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few seasons have passed since the incident in the Alienage, but Isabela's still stranded in Kirkwall...so she takes her amusements as they come, and doesn't think about where they might be going.

The gulls were raucous over the harbour as the early-afternoon sun warmed the docks. It was the first blush of autumn in Kirkwall, and though the city had no trees in sight whose leaves might have changed to signal the season, the air held enough of a bite that a few people might have questioned the wisdom of Isabela's outfit. They could sod right off, for all the pirate cared, along with the simple-minded droolers who acted like they'd never seen a woman before.

She found Bethany loitering by a stall on the very western edge of the docks, seeming for all the world absorbed in deciding between a roasted chicken thigh and a spitted pheasant. Isabela paused, taking the opportunity to eye the other woman up; her hair was long and free , ebony waves falling over her shoulders to halfway down her back, as gorgeous as Isabela had always known it would be. The Warden still advertised her status to all and sundry via the shell she wore, though now it held more silver than blue, and the belt at the woman's hips held a pair of longswords, one on each hip. Both had red wooden handles, long enough to take in two hands, but Isabela had seen Bethany wield them simultaneously to great effect. To a casual observer, then, Bethany appeared nothing more-nor less-than hardened warrior. Of course, Isabela was hardly a casual observer. She knew those fingers could do many more interesting things than hold a sword.

With silent bootsteps, the pirate snuck up behind the Warden, her hands sneaking around Bethany's waist to take hold of the other woman's wrists...or they would have, if the Warden hadn't spun around so quickly that she nearly knocked Isabela on her arse. Before she could fall, however, Isabela found herself steadied by two firm hands, one at her shoulder and the other at the top of her throat. Half a heartbeat passed before recognition flared in Bethany's eyes, but rather than let her quarry go, the Warden yanked the pirate forward and down. Isabela growled at the rough handling, but it turned into a purr when her tongue dueled its way into the other woman's mouth. Bethany still tasted of sunshine, though there were shadows there, too. The pirate's arms were just wrapping around the mage's armoured shoulders when Bethany pulled back.

"I'd wondered when I would see you," the Warden mused, both of her gloved hands settling at Isabela's shoulders. Her eyes were much less timid than they'd been in years past, and the pirate was amused to find naked lust reflected in them as they fell ever-lower. "You've-"

Whatever Bethany had intended to say was drowned out by a drunken dock worker, who'd evidently taken their embrace as a private show for his benefit. "Less talk, pretty ladies," he drawled, shambling far too close to them. "More…"

With reflexes that would have shamed a fruit fly , Bethany spun around, drawing her right-hand blade in one smooth motion. It stopped just above the knot of cartilage at the interloper's throat. "You really want to think carefully about your next words," the Warden cautioned him. "For if I mislike them, they will be your last."

The stranger's eyes were watery to begin with, but they dried surprisingly quickly, even as his lips worked soundlessly. He stepped backward, stumbled, and took off at a shambling run, offering ale-soaked apologies to anyone within whistling distance.

Isabela realised she'd been holding her breath, and she emptied her lungs with a curious sigh as Bethany wiped a few of the sluggard's chin-hairs from her blade. "My heroine," the pirate mocked, cocking her head...though she couldn't deny the sudden warmth she felt, low in her stomach, at the display. "Were you really going to kill him?"

Bethany pulled a disgusted face. "Wasn't worth the walk up to Aveline's ," she scoffed, sliding the sword home with a self-assured nod. "As I was saying," the Warden went on, a bit less loudly, "you've gotten a new corset and bandana." Her tone was maddeningly even, and this time, her honey-coloured eyes didn't move from the pirate's face. "Why?"

"Can't a girl change her outfit every couple of years?" Isabela deflected, glancing away. Half-consciously, she scratched at the knotted cloth on her bicep, before she recovered a bit of her swagger. "Consider it gift-wrapping for your nameday present," the pirate retorted, smirking at the other woman. "If you don't like it, you can take it off with a knife."

Rather than getting flustered, Bethany took another long, indulgent look at Isabela's new clothes. "Black suits you," she pronounced at last. "The crimson on your head and arm are nice touches, too."

The pirate fairly preened, uncertain why the other woman's approval mattered , but she was delighted by it nonetheless. "I've been told the new bodice looks better off me, to be honest."

The Warden rolled her eyes. "That's what they said about the last one, too."

"Were they wrong?" Isabela slanted her shoulders, so the afternoon sunlight glanced off of the tops of her breasts, and she was rewarded by Bethany's sharp intake of breath. "I'll take that as a 'no'," the pirate crooned, and then she sidestepped the Warden to stand before the stall that they'd been blocking. "So, what kind of bird are you going to get me?"

Bethany came up beside her. The Warden gave the stall's elven attendant an apologetic smile. "I guess I'll be taking one of each," she informed the elf, reaching into the front of her armour. As soon as the Warden produced her money pouch, however, the elf shook her head vigorously.

"You won't be needing to pay nothing, messere," the vendor blurted out, offering Bethany a shy smile. "I remember, you saved my house from them darkspawn, last year. I wouldn't have a daughter if it weren't for you."

Isabela clicked her tongue when Bethany put a silver Antivan coin on the countertop over the foodseller's protests. "Get your little girl something nice," the Warden counselled the elf, taking the cooked fowl and slinking away before the vendor could try to return the payment .

"So which one do I get?" Isabela nagged, half-jogging to keep up with the other woman. "And where are we going?"

The Warden laughed. "I'm hungry enough to eat both of these things," she admitted, but then she tossed the pheasant casually. The pirate snatched it up before one of the urchins on the dock could steal the bird away. "But I've got to save room for supper...I haven't seen Mother yet, and she'll want to throw a big meal my way for my nameday."

Isabela chewed thoughtfully on her first bite for a few moments before she swallowed. "That sounds marvellous," she effused. "I've been getting sick of Corff's stews. A decent dinner will do these hips of mine a world of good."

Bethany took her time in answering, obviously savouring her chicken. Isabela was impressed; most people couldn't stand to eat right along the docks, unless they were sailors or street-rats . "I think Mother could be persuaded to have you along," the Warden considered. "As long as you do my share of the washing-up."

"Ooh," Isabela cooed, pulling a mock-hurt expression. "You really do make a woman work for her keep, don't you, Beth?"

"Don't worry," Bethany said, dismissively, as she began climbing the stone steps up to Lowtown. "I'll make sure she doesn't ruin those fingers of yours...I've got plans for them, later."

The very thought made Isabela's fingertips tingle. "Why later?" She wondered, around a mouthful of pheasant. "The day's still young," the pirate pointed out, after swallowing. "We could find a nice, dingy alley somewhere...or go to the Hanged Man."

"We  _could_ ," Bethany conceded, giving the pirate a sidelong glance and licking a bit of grease from her thumb rather suggestively. "But the estate has nice, stone walls...and we don't want to give Varric nightmares, do we?"

Isabela shivered. "When you put it like that…"

They continued their climb, dodging the workers and Chantry sisters that clogged up Lowtown's streets of a day. Isabela confirmed that she didn't want to know what Bethany had been off doing; the Warden had only returned to Kirkwall earlier that day, and would have to give a report to Nathaniel before sunset. The two of them, along with Faenathiel, were Athadra's representatives in Kirkwall; they'd been given official sanction from the viscount's office, owing to their heroism in the Alienage, thirteen months before. As Isabela understood it, Knight-Commander Meredith was none too pleased with that turn of events, but the city's nobles were all too grateful that the Grey Wardens had kept the menace contained to the Alienage for her to move openly against them .

The Alienage itself had been largely repaired, with Nathaniel's assistance and advocacy. The man kept his headquarters in a nondescript sandstone building just outside the elven quarter's gates, which was where Bethany headed. Isabela was all too content to wait outside; she'd had enough of darkspawn and Grey Wardens to last her a dozen lifetimes.

As she stood outside the door, the pirate couldn't help but feel a little nervous. Bethany made no demands of her, indicated no expectations, told her nothing that Isabela did not ask to know...and only half of what the pirate did. Bethany would disappear for weeks at a time, without warning nor any prospective return date. That, and Castillon's sodding relic, were what kept Isabela anchored to Kirkwall; she always had far too much fun with the prettier Hawke twin to consider missing out on one of her shore-leaves. In their way, they were...comfortable.

Isabela  _hated_  being comfortable. It usually meant she was about to get stabbed in the back. She frowned, musing over old betrayals-committed and suffered-as she finished off the pheasant she'd wrangled from her companion. Sooner than she'd expected, the doorway opened up, and Bethany trudged down the steps. "That was quick," Isabela observed. Bethany only nodded. "So," the pirate ventured, taking up a strolling pace once more. "There's a good four or five hours of daylight left. Shall we get into trouble?"

The Warden fixed her with an intrigued smirk. "What'd you have in mind, 'Bela?"

"Well, there  _is_  this new stall in the Lowtown bazaar which has some amazing hats…" The pirate mused. "You could get me one, if you really wanted."

Bethany rolled her eyes. "How come I'm getting you things? It's  _my_  nameday," she pointed out. "Where's my gift?"

Isabela clicked her tongue. "I told you, it's wrapped up, right here," she reminded the other woman. "You can unwrap it whenever you want." That earned the pirate a faint blush from Bethany, which was a pleasant rarity these days. "Anyway," Isabela went on, "do you want to go stall-shopping? If not, we could always hit up the Rose."

"I'll take the hats," Bethany said with a breathless giggle.

Isabela rolled her eyes. "Spoilsport," she shot back, but took the lead to Lowtown's bazaar nonetheless.

The pair spent the next hour or more wandering the stalls, bickering with vendors over their wares. Isabela managed to needle Bethany into getting her a fetching wide-brimmed hat, though she refused the eyepatch that the man tried to talk them into buying as well. Despite her earlier flippancy over Bethany's nameday gift, Isabela bought the Warden a silver bracelet for the rare occasions that the woman didn't have to port around all of that steel. Eventually, the sun sank below the ridges of Kirkwall's buildings, casting Lowtown's roads and alleys into late-afternoon shadow.

Bethany reiterated Isabela's invitation to supper more seriously, and after only a moment's hesitation, the pirate found herself waltzing into Hightown as though she belonged there. The staircase they took up to the upper section just happened to take them to the Red Lantern District, which held the Blooming Rose and a few smaller whorehouses. Isabela revelled in the looks she got as they left the district, especially once she looped her arm into Bethany's and let her hips swagger just a bit more suggestively than normal .

"You know they think you're…" Bethany murmured, after the third stranger turned his nose up at them. "...you know."

Isabela redoubled her grip on the other woman's arm. "I know," she affirmed. "Who cares what they think?" She breathed, throwing her companion a questioning glance. "Do you?"

The Warden shook her head. "I guess not," she admitted, and she must have meant it, for she stopped trying to speed up the pace of their walk.

"Let them whisper," Isabela continued. "They'll be mostly right, anyway." Bethany inclined her head, failing to contest the point, but her cheeks didn't colour any further than they had a few minutes before. Isabela's brows drew down, and she resolved to try harder, but before she got the chance, they reached the front walk of the Hawke Estate.

"Home sweet home," Bethany sighed, taking the lead up to the front door. She fished a key from the same hiding place where she kept her coinpurse, and a handful of heartbeats later, they'd crossed the floor of the anteroom.

The dwarven steward, whom Isabela was almost certain was called Bodahn, assailed the Warden as soon as she poked her head into the sitting room. "So lovely to see you, messere," he effused, sweeping into a low bow. "Mistress Amell will be delighted to hear you've returned." He straightened, tugging on his beard thoughtfully, and looked over to the writing desk. "There's a letter for you, Mistress Hawke," he informed her. "It's from the viscount's office. Arrived not three days ago."

The Warden seemed taken aback, but she was soon distracted by the enormous mabari that bounded down the stairs from the upper floor. After enthusiastically greeting her hound, Bethany moved to the desk and found the fine, folded vellum, sealed in wax. "Are you certain it's not for my brother?" She asked the dwarf, from over her shoulder. "It's just addressed to 'Hawke'."

Bodahn nodded emphatically. "The messenger was very keen, he was," the dwarf explained. "Made me promise to see the letter into your hands at the first opportunity." Isabela felt a knot forming in her stomach; as far as she knew, Viscount Dumar didn't like the Grey Wardens any more than Meredith...not that Isabela payed much attention to Kirkwall's politics. Unless they involved the Felicisima Armada, of course. But getting a personal summons from the viscount couldn't spell anything good.

Bethany seemed to share that intuition. Her lips curled into a frown as she read the missive over, and she heaved a sigh. "He wants me to come see him at the first opportunity," she allowed. "It's supposed to be of great urgency to the city." She crumpled the parchment up and threw it into the fireplace, where it curled and blackened.

"Are you going to go?" Isabela wondered, glancing idly around. Bodahn seemed to have disappeared even more deftly than  _she_  could, which slightly unnerved the pirate .

"I suppose I have no choice," the Warden sighed. "The letter said it had nothing to do with the Grey Wardens, but I'm still considering bringing Nathaniel and Fae with me," she admitted. "Or maybe I'll take you and Carver, to keep him from feeling left out."

The pirate spared her a smirk. " Don't want him to start feeling any more overshadowed than he already is ?" She took another look around. "Where is he, anyway?"

"How should I know?" Bethany retorted.

A voice from the dining-room doorway made both of them jump. "He and Merrill are spending the night under the stars," Leandra said airily. "Or so they say...they're both so secretive."

The light that came over Bethany's face was a minor wonder to behold, and she trudged across the floor in her clunking boots, sweeping her mother into a rib-bruising hug. "I'm sorry I'm late, Mother," she murmured, just loudly enough for Isabela to hear.

The Amell matriarch suffered the embrace for a few uneven breaths before she pulled away. "Darling, you really don't know your own strength anymore," she sighed. "And don't be sorry...I knew you'd make it for supper." The elder woman's face evinced her serene confidence in her daughter. "Have you seen Merrill since you returned? She really has gotten bigger… "

Isabela stayed by the writing table while the mother and daughter spoke, tuning out their banter over Leandra's impending grandchild. The pirate loved Merrill to death, and part of her was quite happy that she and Carver had remained so strong after their accident with the mirror, but Isabela knew that she'd be a bad influence on the little Hawke-to-be. So she preferred not to think about it, even if the eyas would arrive in the next month or so.

Bethany stole up to her room, changing into a simple blue dress with long sleeves, though when they shifted, Isabela noticed that she wore the bracelet the pirate had bought. She also noted a certain gleam which told her that Bethany wore a shanker on each forearm.

The pirate had to practice her tuning-out skills through what turned out to be a rather sumptuous dinner, for the coming grandchild was very much at the forefront of Leandra's conversation . She dropped more than a few hints that Bethany might think of 'settling down' herself, though the younger woman was quick to point out that her status as a Grey Warden made it unlikely that she would ever have children.

"Oh, that's alright," Leandra dismissed, as the three of them worked to clear the table. "I'm unlikely to have any more myself, but I've been considering my own options," she allowed.

That seemed to take Bethany by surprise. "It has really been an age since Father died," she reasoned, after a moment's silent reflection. "Is there anyone in particular you have your eye on?"

Leandra grew cagey. "Nobody you need concern yourself with," she replied, glancing askance. The deflection was more than enough confirmation for Isabela, but she remained silent. "It is nice to think that I could be courted at this age," Leandra continued. "Now, who's going to help me with the washing?"

Somehow, Isabela made it through the tedium, for it was little enough to pay for the delightful meal. She'd consider tagging along for supper more often, if Leandra could be arsed to talk about aught else than Merrill's upcoming delivery or Bethany's evident lack of attachment . Isabela frowned to herself as she wiped the last plate with a damp rag.  _Evident_? Thus far, Leandra had shown no sign that she considered Isabela more than Bethany's acquaintance, which was just as it should have been. Even if the thought of Bethany making her mother proud put another knot in the pirate's stomach .

Bethany departed from her mother with more hugs and kisses, and Isabela stole after her, up the finely-carved stairway to the estate's second floor. Along the way, she glanced at the crude carving she'd made in the balustrade shortly before the great housewarming party, nearly two years before. Shaking her head, the pirate followed Bethany into her small bedchamber without asking. The other woman ignited a candelabra with a lazy flick of her wrists. "You really should teach me to do that," Isabela purred, blinking at the sudden change in light.

"Ask Carver," the Warden retorted. "He says he could do it, if he wanted."

Isabela frowned. "I don't think it's worth killing a dragon over," she pointed out. "Still a nice trick, though."

Bethany tossed her head, gathering her long black hair over her left shoulder. "I thought you preferred it when I made ice?"

"You've got me pegged," the pirate admitted, slinking forward until her nose came to rest just above the other woman's. "Or at least you will have, before you're through ." She drew back millimetrically and cast a glance along the walls. They were solid enough to hold the Warden's arms and armour, but that didn't necessarily mean they were soundproof...which Isabela wouldn't normally mind. But she'd just spent a couple of hours dodging Leandra's curiosity. "Are you sure your mother won't hear?"

"I am," Bethany affirmed readily, and Isabela thought she saw amusement in the other woman's eyes when the pirate's head whipped around. An intense curiosity burned within Isabela to ask how exactly the Warden was so certain; the two of them had fucked often enough, but always in Isabela's territory, her room at the Hanged Man or an empty dockhouse. But they'd never spoken about being lovers, not even once, and Isabela certainly had no cause to be jealous.

Rather than set her tongue loose and ruin everything, then, Isabela dove into a furious kiss. Bethany's surprise lasted for just an instant before her arms wound around the pirate, and the Warden's newfound strength was more than enough to hold Isabela when her legs wrapped around Bethany's hips .

Later, after they'd thoroughly tested Bethany's claim to the solidity of the walls and found it satisfactory, they lay with arms and legs tangled. The bedsheet was still tied to Isabela's left wrist, an impromptu restraint, but she was too exhausted to free it from her limb. "You know," she mused huskily, dragging her fingernails across a couple of bite-marks on Bethany's neck and only half-aware of what she was saying, "I used to think you were just adorable…"

Bethany shifted beneath the pirate's touch, cocking a brow at her pronouncement. "Adorable," she dead-panned, bringing her knee up to rest on a sore spot on Isabela's inner thigh. "Now what do you think I am?"

"Oh, you're still adorable," Isabela insisted, hissing at the dull ache that raced pleasantly up her leg. "But now I think you're also brave…" She leaned closer, brushing a kiss over the other woman's forehead. "And cute." Isabela's breath caught in her throat as Bethany pushed her onto her back, and that curtain of black hair blocked out all the world except the other woman's face. "Deadly," the pirate continued, when the Warden took up her wrists and pinned them above her head. The leg between her thighs brushed her core, dragging a groan from Isabela's belly. "Evocative," she panted, and managed a laugh at Bethany's arched brow. "Hey, pirates can read, too, you know ."

"I know," Bethany conceded, before closing the distance between them and stealing whatever foolish word that Isabela's salt-addled mind could think of next. By the time the Warden was finished with her, the bedsheet had been used as a blindfold, then a gag, and finally as another restraint. And if there'd been any doubt about the soundness of their privacy, it was thoroughly put to rest .

The room had no window, but the candles had burnt low by the time that Bethany relented once more, and it took several long moments for Isabela to catch her breath. "One of these days," the pirate threatened in a quaking voice, "I'll have to get you on a ship."

This time Bethany did not turn, seemingly content to lay back and stare up at the canopy of the bed. "Do you...think you'll get one? Someday?"

It was as close as Bethany ever came to asking about the relic, that damned albatross that kept Isabela land-locked. "That, or die trying," the pirate vowed. She could stow away on a ship, certainly, but she knew she'd never survive as another hired hand...she needed a boat of her own, with an able crew, and nothing but the horizon to set her limits. "But it will take me awhile," she assured the other woman, uncertain even as she spoke the words why it was so important that they be said.

Bethany's reply was long in coming, but when her lips finally parted, a yawn fell out. "I think...it's time for you to go," she mumbled lazily.

Isabela's brow quirked. "That's my line," she pointed out, covering the odd feeling in her gut with a smirk . And though moving gave her a thousand little aches, she arched herself up on one elbow, sweeping her hand up her flank. "Are you really going to pass up another chance at this?"

That got the Warden's attention, and her brown eyes sent shivers over Isabela's flesh. "Yes," Bethany answered, after a languid inspection. "Tempting as it is, we both should sleep...big day with the viscount, tomorrow."

"Right," Isabela conceded, though she didn't move for a few heartbeats. With a resigned sigh, and then a pained groan, the pirate rolled off of the bed and worked herself into her attire. She ignored the prickle of unease that had settled in the back of her mind, but when she finally made it to the bedroom door, she gave Bethany a parting glance. "We should do this again, sometime," Isabela ventured.

The low light glinted off of Bethany's tongue as she licked her lips deliberatively...or, perhaps, indulgently. "I'd like that," she admitted at last.

The pirate nodded and slipped away on wobbly legs, too exhausted to consider the implications of what had just passed between them .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my wonderful beta-reader, clafount at ff.net, and also to my lovely reviewers wtgw and 'Riptide's Fan', and to anyone else who's following and enjoying this story!


	36. Matters of Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany has to answer an official missive from the viscount's office, but for once, the ostensible ruler of Kirkwall is little more than a messenger. Somehow, the Grey Warden has gained the attention of the Qunari Arishok, who has a task fit only for someone of her skill.

 

Bethany had to give Seneschal Bran at least a bit of credit, for he was either courageous or foolhardy enough to greet her arrival with all of the haughty disdain that she recalled from their very first meeting, two years before . She and her brother had rescued the viscount's son, then, and she'd been too timid to stand up to the officious man's sneers. That was before she'd faced ogres and broodmothers and the flesh-borne golems of Amgarrak. Now, Bran's dithering merely grated on her nerves.

"I'm sure an appropriate time could be arranged, Serah Hawke," he informed her, pointedly ignoring her well-armed companions. "If you would but send notice-"

"I don't have time for this," Bethany broke in, taking a single step forward. Barcus was at her heel once more, as attuned to her moods as ever, and he let out a low growl. "Viscount Dumar summoned me personally at my  _earliest convenience_ ," she reiterated. "If you see fit to turn me away now, I can't guarantee that I'll find another convenient time for weeks."

The seneschal paled, shuffling half a step backward. "Wait here," he finally relented. "I will see if the viscount is available." Bethany inclined her head, slightly ashamed of the pride she took in the other man's fearful acquiescence . He disappeared into the viscount's chambers, only to emerge a few moments later, looking thoroughly chastised. "Viscount Dumar will see you," Bran allowed. "Just  _you_ ," he clarified, when Isabela, Carver, and Varric all moved to follow Bethany.

Carver looked to protest, but the Warden gave her fraternal twin an apologetic shrug. "I'll tell you everything," she promised her companions, and then she followed the seneschal through the anteroom to Dumar's office. Bran clucked his tongue when the mabari presumed to come along , but he made no other complaints, and he left them at the viscount's office door.

Viscount Marlowe Dumar looked a decade older than when she'd last seen him, so briefly, those two years past. There had been a hint of colour in his razor-thin goatee, then, but now his chin gleamed white in the morning light. "Hawke," he grunted, pushing off from his desk. "It's...good that you've come."

"I only arrived yesterday noon," Bethany offered, feeling slightly awkward beneath the old man's tight smile. "I'm often away."

Dumar nodded once. "Yes, yes...business for the Grey Wardens, I presume." He frowned, likely at the memory of his first meeting with the Commander, the year before. "I need no explanation," he assured her. "I am only grateful that you've come."

The Warden felt relieved, but she crossed her arms nonetheless, hinting at impatience. "And why have I been summoned, messere?"

The viscount turned his back on her, strolling casually to an open window. "I wish I knew," he muttered, just above her hearing. Then, a bit louder, "For three years I've stood between fanatics. At any moment, it seems that passions could spark a conflagration that would end this great city."

Bethany's brow drew down. "You mean...the Qunari?"

"And their antagonists among the Chantry, yes," Dumar replied, turning again to fix the Warden with a pained look. "Kirkwall has tension enough between templar and mage. The last thing we need is a herd of heretical giants taking up permanent residence for Maker knows how long." He shook his head, and Bethany observed that his obsidian circlet weighed heavily upon it. "Balance is maintained because the Qunari ask for nothing. Even the space in Lowtown was a... _gift_ , to contain them."

"Why haven't they left yet?" Bethany wondered. "It's been three years since their shipwreck." Something familiar tickled in her memory, just beyond her grasp, but it was lost before she could get a firm grip on it. The Warden blinked it away.

The viscount grunted a laugh. "Your guess is as good as mine...they say they are waiting for another ship, but they've had ample time to build their own. I've even offered the resources and workmen to see it done for them, but their leader has declined every overture."

The Warden swallowed. "The Arishok," she supplied, shuddering at the recollection of her one and only meeting with the Qunari leader. An over-eager dwarf had roped them into running an errand for the Arishok, against the Arishok's own wishes...and she'd gotten the distinct impression that people did not normally survive contravening the Arishok's wishes.

"Indeed," Dumar affirmed. "And now he has asked for you," the viscount continued. "By name."

A handful of heartbeats passed before the Warden could gather her thoughts. "What does he want with me?"

The older man returned to his desk, smoothing over a sheaf of parchment. "His missive says only that the woman Hawke is required at the compound," Dumar informed her. "This is the only request I've ever received from the man. I have no idea what you shall face, nor how safe it shall be. I only know that Kirkwall will be in your debt for placating him."

Bethany knew that she could refuse, and by the tentative look on Dumar's face, he knew it full well, also. "I do not want a city in my debt," she said, shaking her head. "But," the Warden went on, before the man could mistake her words, "I shall do this thing...and pray that this is the end of it." That last was most likely a lie, since Bethany couldn't remember the last time she'd actually sought Andraste's favour, but it seemed to cheer the viscount nonetheless.

"Please do," he implored her, with a grateful smile.

When he sat at his desk, Bethany understood that she was dismissed, and so she led Barcus back out of the office. The seneschal thanked her for her time rather snidely, but she ignored him, signaling for her companions to follow her out of the Viscount's Keep. Only once they were halfway through the courtyard did she clarify their destination. "The Arishok wants to see me."

"What?!" Carver, Isabela, and Varric all spat more-or-less simultaneously. Isabela overrode the rest, however. "Did he say what he wanted?"

Bethany eyed the pirate a bit warily, unused to the concern in her voice. "No," she admitted. "But the viscount seems to think that my absence will be noted."

"That figures," Carver lamented. "I'm the one who did all the bloody talking to him, but he remembers  _you_."

The Warden rolled her eyes. "He asked for 'the woman Hawke'," she retorted. "I could always spell you a nice pair of breasts and you could go in my place." She couldn't, really, but the moment's worry in his eyes was more than worth the lie . "Do you all want to come, or not?"

Varric huffed. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Sunshine," he assured her. She smiled at his now-too-rare use of her old nickname. Carver still groused, but offered a noncommittal shrug.

Isabela stopped short at the bottom of the second flight of stairs, however. "I...just remembered," she ventured. "Got to go shank someone at the Rose." At Bethany's skeptical glance, the pirate threw up her hands. "What? The bastard slapped around one of my girls."

"It's on the way," Bethany observed. "We could help you take care of it."

Isabela shook her head, a lock of hair falling from beneath her crimson bandana. "No," she said, a bit too quickly. "It sounds like you shouldn't wait around on little old me...and besides," she reasoned, "I wouldn't want to get your hands dirty."

The excuse sounded sour on Bethany's ears, but she relented, and did not look back when Isabela disappeared near the Blooming Rose. The splinter in her mind itched once more, but she buried it under the weight of her task . It was a relatively short jaunt into Lowtown, and then to the very top of the docks, where the Qunari kept themselves in a highly-defensible compound.

One of the heretical soldiers stood guard at the closed gate. He was at least eight feet tall, his blue-bronze skin splashed with red ochre beneath sparse armour. " _Bas_ ," he grunted, bringing his spear to bear against them. "Give your purpose."

A flutter of fear trembled within the Warden, but she schooled her face. "I am here to see your Arishok," she pronounced. "He sent for me." The guard seemed unimpressed, or perhaps he spoke too little of the King's Tongue to understand. She gave her brother an apologetic glance before sighing. "I am Hawke." She remembered how the men of the Red Iron had called Carver by that name.

But Bethany's suspicions were correct, and her surname got the gate opened for her and her companions. Part of her wished they'd stay behind, for even they wouldn't be able to mount a fighting retreat from the compound if the Qunari were determined to box them in, but the Warden was grateful for their presence nonetheless. The Arishok's throne looked much the same as it had when last she'd stood at the foot of the sandstone steps, flanked by a dozen enormous warriors. The man himself was absent for the moment, but Bethany and her companions didn't have to wait long for him to make his entrance.

Like his subordinates, the Arishok had dove-white hair and purplish skin. Unlike many of the other Qunari, the Arishok's horns were magnificent, swept back from his skull and banded with gold rings inscribed with the runes of his native tongue. He reminded her of nothing so much as an ogre, but when he sat down upon his great chair and regarded them curiously, Bethany stood her ground against her instincts to fight or flee. "Serah Hawke," the Qunari leader intoned in his low timbre, his face registering displeasure. "When last we met, I did not know your name-did not care to," he informed her, casually. "It appears that your fortunes have risen in the intervening years."

The silence lasted for three heartbeats before Bethany realised he was inviting her to respond. "You may say that," she called, up the steps. "I am a Grey Warden; my life is pledged against the darkspawn. Many do not envy my fate."

"Yet you have purpose," the Arishok countered. "Your skills and your magic are wielded for more than your own benefit. Everyone under my command would experience the height of bliss to find themselves in your boots, serah." The man's frown was loud enough to shatter glass . "Our fortunes remain stagnant."

The Warden had no idea how to respond to the Arishok's pronouncement, and she had little desire to remain in his presence a second longer than absolutely necessary. "How can I help you, messere?"

He still looked restive, but the Arishok sat forward, peering at Bethany and her companions over his interlocked fingers. "You will recall a dwarf whose mouth moved more quickly than his feet," he rumbled. "He wished to trade your labours for the formula to create  _gaatlok_."

"Javaris," Bethany mused, recalling the name from some dim corner of her mind. She cast a glance at Varric. "Didn't we kill him ?"

The beardless dwarf arched a brow, obviously scanning his own memories. "No," he answered. "The Arishok up there scared the nug-tickling bastard half to death, though."

Bethany nodded and returned her gaze to the Qunari leader. "Has he been giving you trouble again?"

"The fool's tongue has not yet been excised," the Arishok replied. "You will want to find him, and when you do, I suggest you correct that oversight."

The Warden's lips tipped into a frown. "You aren't giving me much to go on, messere," she pointed out. "What has the dwarf Javaris done to earn your ire?"

A low thrum vibrated from deep within the Arishok's chest. "The short-mouth has stolen what he believes to be the formula for  _gaatlok_ ," he informed them. "We anticipated this action, and ensured a different alchemical recipe was taken instead. I let you know as a courtesy; what you do with my gift of knowledge is your decision."

Bethany did not move when the Qunari stood, apparently ready to dismiss his audience. "I won't kill someone on your word, serah," she informed him as coolly as she could manage. "If you knew he was coming, why didn't you take care of him yourself?"

The Arishok hesitated in the middle of his turn. "Because," he enunciated deliberately, "the Qun demands us to secure  _gaatlok_ , but it does not demand that we protect  _bas_  from their own foolishness." His liquid-metal eyes glowed in the dusty light as he cast his gaze down upon her. "The dwarf stole the recipe for  _saar-qamek_ ," he allowed. "A poison gas-not explosives. The Qunari are inured to its effects...your kind, however, are not ."

That was enough to unsettle the mage, if only slightly. "Why would you substitute one formula for the other?" She wondered aloud. "Just to keep your explosive powder a secret?" She'd heard of Qunari explosives before, but had not been able to put a name to them.

"You speak as though you would hand a broadsword to a child, if it only asked you," the Qunari leader scoffed. " _Gaatlok_  can move mountains...or tear cities asunder. The dwarf knew this; his eyes showed his greed for such power."

Bethany's throat felt parched, but she mounted the first stone step, her stomach churning. "And this other powder," she breathed. "It will kill us, but leave the city intact." A few of the Arishok's retainers stood at greater attention to either side of him, their weapons easily within reach, but their leader merely leaned forward. At least a dozen feet still separated him from the mage, and Bethany was certain she would be dead well before she could bridge that distance, should she be foolish enough to try.

The Arishok regarded her evenly, his dark eyes sparkling in the dusty light. "Any competent alchemist could tell the formula would not explode," he rumbled, dismissively, evidently letting her own comment go unanswered. "But will the dwarf's greed permit him to be cautious? Or, sure of success, will he forge ahead blindly and manufacture enough to threaten a district?"

"But why did you let the thief succeed at all?" The Warden demanded, a cool-burning rage sparking somewhere deep within her chest. "You've been here for three years, now. Nearly a dozen ships could have come and gone to the northern isles in that time."

The implicit accusation caused the Arishok's silver brows to draw in, and with the speed of a waking mammoth, he slowly rose from his austere throne. "No ship is coming for us," he admitted, a sour note in his baritone. "Not until I have fulfilled a demand you cannot understand."

The sight of the man-if such a strange, enormous creature could be properly termed such-sent a frisson of fear trickling down Bethany's spine. But she had faced down ogres, and worse, and she yet breathed. "I am not a tool for you to use as you see fit," the Warden insisted. "Help me understand why you will not leave, and I will deal with your oversight with the alchemical recipe."

The Arishok's eyes closed and the golden rings of his pointed ears quivered as he tilted his head forward, stroking his temples thoughtfully. " _Meen-ak ashvaaras saarebas linshek bas saarebas_ ," he mumbled in his own tongue, the syllables lost on Bethany. She knew that  _saarebas_  meant  _mage_ , and that understanding did little to set her mind at ease . Before she made her decision to beat a retreat with her companions, however, the Qunari leader went on in the King's Tongue. "Filth stole from us," he growled, gracing the Warden with his glance once more. "Not now, not the  _saar-qamek_  formula. Years ago." He turned his back upon his audience and paced, clearly agitated. "That is why we remain. That is why we do not simply  _walk_  from this pustule of a city. We are denied Par Vollen until I recover what was lost under my command." He rounded again, stalking to the top of the stairs. "Fixing your mess is not the demand of the Qun," he exclaimed. "And you should all be grateful!"

Bethany remained silent throughout the Qunari leader's diatribe, though her heart nestled somewhere in the back of her throat, even as he slumped, almost defeated, into his great chair. The content of his words concerned her even more than his tone, however, and she felt that uneasy pricking in the back of her mind once more . "I will find the dwarf," she vowed, her own voice low. "And I pray that you find what you seek, and leave this place in peace."

"Despite the many provocations your people have offered, you and I are of a kind in that desire," the Arishok intoned. As Bethany turned to leave, however, his low voice went on. "However, the demand of the Qun might more easily be satisfied by sifting through rubble, if my patience is tested much further."

The proclamation stopped the Warden in her boots, its threat too obvious to ignore. She breathed out in a low, sibilant hiss, finally throwing a sharp glance back up at the seated Qunari and his guards. "You may try," she observed. "But if you breach the peace, you may not find us so easily brought to heel." With that, Bethany continued walking, pushing past her brother and Varric in her desire to be elsewhere.

* * *

The Viscount's Keep was hardly less busy in the middle of the night than it had been in the early hours of the morning, and nearly as many guards mulled about the entryway and stairs as Bethany remembered from earlier in the day. She limped up the stairs as quickly as her exhausted legs could carry her, followed by Carver, Varric, and Barcus. Isabela loitered behind the rest of them, her presence tugging at the edge of Bethany's awareness. The mage thought the pirate's lagging might be explained by her injuries, but that merely deferred the question, since Isabela was usually much more nimble in combat than she'd been that day. Or, perhaps, Bethany was simply overthinking it-the  _saar-qamek_  had affected each of them, before the battle was through. The mage herself had only been able to heal the party's flesh wounds once the battle was through, unwilling to use her blood in the midst of so many witnesses .

Despite the lateness of the hour, Seneschal Bran stood sentinel in front of the viscount's office door, like always. His thin lips twisted into a sneer when he caught sight of the dirty interlopers in their blood-stained clothes and armour. "And just where do you lot think you're going?" He drawled, coming to stand between Bethany and the double doors.

The Warden was in no mood to dance around the seneschal's sensibilities. "I'm going to see Dumar," she pronounced, her voice raw from screaming and coughing. "You'd do well to stand aside."

Bran took a single step backward, his lips tilting into a grimace. "The viscount is asleep at the moment," he informed them. "You should return on the morrow."

Bethany lunged forward, snatching the man up by his fine linen shirt and forcing him back into the closed double doors. "Wake. Him." She demanded through clenched teeth, her face shadowed behind wild hanks of her onyx hair. When his lips worked soundlessly, the Warden huffed and released the poor man, but she did not step away .

The seneschal dithered only a handful of heartbeats before he pressed through the double doors, and Bethany jumped when a booted footfall sounded on the thick carpet beside her. "Do you think he soiled himself?" Isabela sing-songed, throwing the mage a cocky smirk that didn't quite hide the cagey look she'd held since just before stalking off to the Blooming Rose, earlier in the day .

"Andraste's roasted nuggets, I hope so," Varric gruffed from just behind the Warden.

Before Bethany could respond, Bran emerged from a nearby side-door. "Viscount Dumar will see you, Hawke," he pronounced, wearily. "The others will stay here."

Carver's voice rose in protest, but Bethany fixed him with a grimace, and his wordless grunt tapered off . With a nod, the Warden forged ahead after the seneschal, her mabari following at a measured distance. Even Barcus hadn't avoided bruises in the desperate fight in the Lowtown alleyway. Bran led Bethany down a smaller flight of stairs that seemed to take them beneath the Viscount's office. The room she entered instead appeared to be a study, windowless, its walls covered with scrolls and bound volumes. "The viscount will arrive presently," Bran drawled, before disappearing back up the way he'd come.

The Warden didn't have to wait long for Dumar's appearance. One of the shelves opened outward, showing the old man's silhouette for a moment, before he stepped more fully into the room and closed the wall behind him. "I received Guard-Captain Aveline's report on the Lowtown neighbourhood," the man announced without preamble, sounding every bit the elder statesman. "It was...ghastly."

Bethany blinked until her eyes adjusted to the low candlelight once more. Dumar seemed to have aged another handful of years in the past day, if such a thing were possible. "The guards cannot know how bad it was," she commented, almost idly. "Elves driven mad with a Qunari poison, who felt no pain and no fear." She shuddered, closing her eyes against the memory. "Almost like they were darkspawn."

The viscount made a disgusted sound, and his own answer was long in coming. "Serah Vallen's report was vague," he informed the Warden. "Have you any more details to explain what happened? And how the Qunari factor into it?"

The Warden gritted her teeth, breathing in a long, slow hiss. "The Arishok admitted that he's here for a certain purpose," she informed the man. "He will not leave until he's recovered something that he lost."

Dumar's face twitched his displeasure, but he didn't seem terribly surprised. "I see my suspicions were correct...no ship is forthcoming to take them out of our fair city." He shook his head. "But what of the gas? Was it a deliberate attack?"

The fear in the man's voice was understandable, even if it left a poor taste on Bethany's tongue. She'd have been afraid, once, but now the prospect of facing the horned beasts in open combat was almost preferable to the uncertain accord that seemed to grow weaker by the day. "No," she allowed, after a moment's consideration. "The Qunari were guarding their explosive powder from a thief, whom they tricked with the recipe for the gas...but the Arishok assumed that the thief was a merchant, with profit in mind." The Warden shook her head. "It was an elf, though, fighting to keep her people from converting to the Qun." The madwoman's laugh still haunted Bethany, even though the Warden's blades had silenced it more than an hour before. "Now she and a few dozen of her fellows are dead."

"Maker have mercy," the viscount lamented, turning his gaze away from his guest. "I suppose there can be no question of compensation from them," he mused, mostly to himself, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm quickly losing any sense of how to balance this fiasco," he admitted.

"There is no balance," Bethany offered, unsure where the words came from. "The Chantry will never accept the heretics living here; elves have already tried to join the Qunari, despite the Arishok's lack of interest in recruiting. How much longer before poor humans start abandoning their faith, if they haven't already?" She shook her head. "And if the Arishok cannot find what he seeks soon, I don't think he'll be able to tolerate too many more provocations."

The viscount's head seemed little more than a skull, its deep lines muted by the low candlelight. "What do you suggest, Serah Hawke?"

"I have no idea," Bethany replied, turning toward the room's only obvious door. "But whatever's to be done, it must happen soon." She left him, then, without waiting to be dismissed. Tension and unease danced within her on her lonely climb back into the keep's main hall, too many questions unanswered for the mage to rest easy .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to my beta-reader, buttercup23 (also known as clafount at fanfiction.net), and thanks to everyone who's read and enjoyed this story so far!


	37. Bouquet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver's just starting to settle into his new life, and he's looking forward to sharing his future with his family...but it looks like the rest of Kirkwall will not be content to let him enjoy anything like stability.

 

Mid-morning light filtered through the bedroom's pale curtains, slowly stirring Carver awake. He'd long since grown accustomed to letting the sun wake him, for he'd shared the room with Merrill for nearly a year, and the Dalish elf simply loved the sunshine. The warrior shifted slowly, propping himself up on one elbow, letting his gaze linger over the woman's placid face for a few precious moments. Gently, Carver drew his thumb across her cheek, tracing over one of the lines the elf wore so proudly. When his touch failed to rouse his companion, Carver's hand roamed downward, disappearing beneath the blanket that shrouded both of them. His digits followed the path of the inked tree-trunk on Merrill's abdomen, until his palm came to rest on the gentle rise of her belly. He let his eyes drift closed as he considered the two lives he held in his hand, unable, as always, to take a proper accounting of his fortune .

Though Merrill seemed impervious to Carver's touch, the child within her proved more sensitive; after a handful of heartbeats, the warrior felt the subtle nudges that told him that the little one was awake, at least. Soon enough, the kicks drew the Dalish elf from her dreams-she jerked suddenly, a spasm of surprise crossing her features, but her expression settled into pleasant surprise as she became aware of her surroundings. " _Atisha uth'then ha'lam_ ," Merrill murmured, stifling a yawn and rolling onto her side to face him.

Carver breathed a chuckle at the Elvish words; once he might have rolled his eyes and called it gibberish, but he'd begun to see the beauty in the arcane expressions. "Good morning to you, too," he pronounced, before his brow twitched in concern. "Did you have the dream again?"

Merrill's fingers laced through his, the elf pressing his palm more solidly into her belly. "Yes," she admitted, closing her forest-green eyes for the space of a breath. " But it wasn't so bad, this time," Merrill claimed, once her eyes had found him again. Her lips even managed to quirk into a small smile. "I think it's getting better,  _latha'len_. "

"I hope so, love," he replied, leaning in to brush a soft kiss across the mage's forehead. Nearly every night since the child had quickened within her, Merrill had faced a recurring scene whenever she slept soundly...not a nightmare, exactly, but it seemed to distress her for the first few months. She wouldn't give him too many details, but the Dalish elf was adamant that it wasn't a demon's trick, and she didn't seem to regret the choice she'd made that had led her to share Carver's bed.

They were both-all three, Carver reminded himself-lucky to still breathe, after what the mirror had brought forth into the Alienage. If not for Athadra and the rest of the Grey Wardens, half of Kirkwall would have been lost, rather than half of the elven district. Occasionally the warrior's own dreams were haunted by the monsters he'd helped to fend off, so similar to the beasts encountered in Ostagar and afterward, yet much more powerful and vicious all the same . More than one elf and human guard had to be silenced, once the fiends were beaten back and the mirror broken once again. Carver was thankful to the Maker, the Creators, and whoever else might listen, that he and Merrill had been spared that fate.

The Dalish elf had been inconsolable for weeks once the dust had cleared from the Alienage, her years of effort and best intentions ending in death and destruction. Yet she'd been freed from her burden at last, and Marethari so had invited her back to the clan, as though all could simply be forgiven . Carver had been terrified that he'd never see her again. But in the end, the elf chose to remain with him. She was still Dalish to her very toes, and after a few months of recovering from the shock, she became the scourge of Hightown nobles' gardens once more . And, of course, Leandra had welcomed the lass into the house with all of her motherly enthusiasm, and when she learned of her coming grandchild, the Lady Amell became happier than Carver had seen her, at least since the death of Malcolm. Bethany was about the estate as often as not these days, as well.

It seemed as though all of the years of struggle, since Ostagar and before, were finally behind them. Carver felt contented, perhaps for the first time in his life. "I love you, Merrill," he offered unprompted, and he was rewarded with the woman's breathless, almost disbelieving grin.

"I love you, Carver," Merrill answered, her green eyes twinkling. Then she winced, glancing down at her belly, through the blanket. "She's getting more eager to see her papa every day," the mage mused. "It won't be much longer, now."

The warrior leaned closer, stealing another chaste kiss from his lover's forehead. "And I can't wait to see her," he assured Merrill. She claimed to know that she carried a girl, and Carver had no reason to disbelieve her. "Paqua Hawke," he breathed, still trying to get used to the name. "I wish Paquis could have seen her… "

Merrill nuzzled into the crook of Carver's neck. "He will,  _latha'len_ ," she insisted, not for the first time. "I'm sure of it." She'd been surprisingly amenable to Carver's idea for their daughter's name, once he'd explained how the rogue had given his life to save Carver's, back in Ferelden. "But now, little Paqua says she's hungry," Merrill said, stifling a yawn. "As much as I'd love to just lie in all day…"

"Me too," Carver affirmed. "But Bethany wants to go help the Chantry brother get revenge on the Harrimanns today, too." He sat up slowly with a bit of a grunt, rolling his shoulders...still sore from a hard day's training with his sister from the previous day. He'd never have believed it a year ago, but the slightly-older Hawke was very nearly as adept with her longswords as he was with his greatblade. Carver chalked it up to being a Grey Warden, though he was hardly tempted to join the order himself, in spite of his twin's increased skills.

"Oh, I wish I could go with you," Merrill lamented, still lounging back despite her claims of hunger.

The warrior offered her a cocky grin. "I know," he replied. "I'll just have to kill a few bastards for you."

"That would be lovely," the elf affirmed earnestly, finally drawing herself up from the bed .

It was Carver's turn to linger, as he watched his love stretch out the last vestiges of sleep, the morning sunlight throwing her form into shadow. His eyes caught at her flared hips, and the warrior briefly entertained the notion of drawing her back into the bed, but somehow he found the will to restrain the impulse. Anders would certainly be displeased if Carver did anything so reckless this close to Merrill's lying-in. The healer and the Dalish elf were agreed that little Paqua would take her first breath before the end of August. So, instead of giving over to his impulsive lust, the warrior rolled out of the other side of the bed. The pair dressed in silence, Carver in his trousers and sleeveless shirt, while Merrill had taken to wearing a long, flowing robe.

The mage took the initiative, stalking from the bedroom just as Carver was pulling on his boots. He stumbled after her, taking care not to break his neck on the stairs, intent on sharing a lazy breakfast with the Dalish elf. The dining room showed evidence that Bethany had come and gone, which wasn't terribly surprising; no matter how late the Warden went to bed or how hard she pushed herself, she always rose before the sun. The smell of eggs and ham wafted in from the kitchen, and when Carver and Merrill went to investigate, they found Leandra hard at work preparing enough food for the three of them.

"Oh, come in, darlings," the Lady Amell called to them just as Carver pushed through the door. "Your sister's gone out an hour ago, but she's coming back soon," she informed them, humming to herself. Carver knew it must be true, for his mother would never be so content if Bethany had simply disappeared on Warden business, as she'd often done without warning or word of her return. "Are you hungry?"

Merrill ambled closer, drawn by a rasher of bacon that had already been cooked. "I'm starving," she replied, giving Leandra a shy smile.

The Amell matriarch heaved a sigh. "Go on, then," she allowed, chuckling when Merrill snatched up a slice of bacon. The elf groaned in pleasure as she chewed. "Honestly, you're nearly as bad as Bethany, my dear," Leandra teased.

Carver looked over his shoulder to the dining room, where three earthenware plates stood spotless on one end of the table. "I doubt that," he shot back at his mother. "I bet she ate as much as Merrill and I both will. Have you had any breakfast yet, Mother?"

"No," Leandra admitted, before turning a sharp eye on her son. "And you can make yourself useful by collecting those plates and washing them up for us."

The warrior stood his ground. " Why can't Orana do it?"

Upon mention of the elven  _servant_  that Carver had recently rescued while helping Fenris, Leandra turned away from the stove. "Be a dear and keep stirring the eggs," she told Merrill in her best motherly voice, before turning her sharp gaze on her son. "That poor girl has suffered enough, seeing her father murdered by some Tevinter madwoman. I have allowed her in this house because she's nowhere else to go, but she will not be our slave, Carver."

"But I'm paying her," Carver protested. "And she wants to help!"

Leandra was unyielding. "We'll get her situated as Bodahn's assistant soon enough, but in the meantime, you grew up on a farm," she pointed out. "Don't pretend like you've forgotten how to do proper chores ." And then she returned to the stove, rescuing Merrill from the eggs just before they began to burn.

Defeated, Carver trudged back into the dining room and gathered the earthenware plates. It took him hardly any time at all to clean them, given how thorough Bethany must have been when she'd used them earlier, and soon enough all three were piled high with eggs, ham, and bacon. Carver sat down beside Merrill, while Leandra took the chair opposite them on the long table, and the three ate in silence for a few moments.

"It is lovely to have the house so full again," Leandra commented, when Merrill and Carver had stopped wolfing down their breakfast as though it would grow legs and run away. "I don't think it's had this many people in it since shortly after I ran off with your father. If only Bethany could convince that sailor of hers to move in…"

Carver nearly choked on a mouthful of eggs, and had to pound on his chest to force it down. "Y ou, ahh...know about...them?"

The Lady Amell's lips quirked into a knowing smile. "I do have eyes, you know," she commented. "We all shared a meal on your and Bethany's nameday, which you missed," she chided him, only half seriously.

"That was my fault," Merrill breathed. "I'm so sorry!"

The warrior placed a steady hand on the elf's shoulder. "It's alright," he assured her, before looking back to his mother. "I don't really think Isabela is the settling-down type," he said, as evenly as he could .

Leandra tilted her head. "They could hardly keep their eyes off of one another, as I recall," she commented. "And whenever I mentioned finding a suitable husband for Bethany, they both stiffened up like a couple of boards. It was rather adorable, really." The woman giggled at herself. "Don't let them know that I know; I think Bethany wants to keep it a secret."

"She'll not hear a peep from me," Carver vowed. "The less I know about those two, the better."

Merrill elbowed him gently in the ribs. "You're just jealous that Isabela didn't pick you," she chided him, her tattooed cheeks shifting with her impish grin. "I remember how you looked at her when she couldn't see you ."

The warrior threw up his hands. "Not you, too," he lamented, his voice only a hair's breadth away from a laugh. "I swear, I'll get no peace in this house from now on."

The conversation continued sporadically, as the three finished their meal, and Carver couldn't help but agree with his mother that the estate was beginning to feel like a proper home. Leandra reminded them of her weekly visit to her brother in Lowtown, and Carver warned her to be careful on the way, as he wasn't sure when the business with Sebastian would be concluded. Once the plates and pans had been cleaned anew, they made their way into the estate's main sitting room, where Carver hoped to enjoy a bit of leisure time before his sister dragged him off on another mercenary venture. He might have laughed at the irony of Bethany seeking out further work while he was content to remain at home, especially since she hadn't been keen on helping Sebastian Vael in the first place, but he couldn't deny that there were worse fates than having a prince of Starkhaven in his debt. Carver's plans for another few hours with Merrill and his mother were upset, however, when Bethany emerged from the estate's entrance hall with Barcus at her side.

She gleamed in her Grey Warden armour, which let her walk through Kirkwall without fear of getting dragged off to the Gallows, both because she looked nothing like a typical mage and because Athadra had purchased the order's freedom with blood at the very foot of the Viscount's Kee p. "Hello Mother, Merrill," the Warden greeted with a broad smile. "How are you feeling today?"

Leandra told her daughter that all was well, while the elf moved across the floor to scritch at Barcus' ears. The dog leaned into the attention, but he took evident care to keep from tipping Merrill over. "I'm fine," Merrill assured the slightly-elder Hawke. "Aside from having a sore back and needing to use the privy every half-hour, and eating everything in sight," she sighed, though Carver noticed her lips curving into a self-satisfied smile.

Bethany's own smile turned a bit wistful. "It can't be much longer now," she allowed. "And then I'll have a niece to worry about, along with a brother," she teased, throwing Carver a winking glance.

The warrior rolled his eyes. "And here I thought you didn't worry about anything other than darkspawn," he commented. "And trying to keep Athadra from taking your head off, anyway."

He could tell at once that his casual use of their childhood friend's name didn't sit well with his sister, but Bethany didn't see fit to remark upon it . "Are you ready?" She asked, instead, looking back over her shoulder to the anteroom. "Varric and Isabela are already waiting outside."

Carver looked at Merrill and his mother, almost apologetically. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he vowed. "And I'll be careful."

"I know you will," the Dalish elf affirmed, stepping closer, leaning up just slightly to plant a kiss to his smooth jaw. He'd tried growing a beard again, but he couldn't manage more than a few wispy strands, and so he'd taken to shaving regularly once more. "Leandra and I can rearrange the sitting room while you're gone," Merrill mused, looking about them. "I think the writing desk is a bit too close to the fire…"

The Lady Amell nodded her agreement. "I think that's a wonderful idea, darling!"

The warrior chuckled, shaking his head slightly, but knowing all too well not to comment on the Dalish elf's newfound fondness for moving furniture...or at least watching Bodahn move it at her behest. "I hope I don't trip over the divan on my way back ," he said, leaning in for a brief kiss of his own before he turned back to Bethany. "Lead on,  _Hawke_ ," Carver offered, unable to conceal a smirk.

Bethany was in the midst of rolling her eyes when the dwarf, Bodahn Feddic, cleared his throat and stepped through the doorway. "Messeres, I present Serah Bran Newcombe, Seneschal of Kirkwall," he announced, somewhat apologetically.

As soon as Bodahn stepped aside, the seneschal picked his way into the room, his rust-coloured eyes sweeping over the Hawkes' possessions with obvious disinterest. "Such a...humble home, you've made for yourselves," Bran commented, before his gaze settled pointedly upon Bethany.

"How can we help you, seneschal?" The Warden said in greeting, though her tone was far from helpful.

Carver didn't feel content to let his sister speak for the family in their own home. "What are you doing here?" He demanded of the man, turning to face him more fully.

Bran must have had the tact to keep from looking affronted, for he smiled at the warrior even as Leandra reproached Carver for being rude, before his attention returned to the Warden. "The viscount has entrusted me to deal with a matter of some delicacy," he informed her. "And I have judged it prudent to delegate the matter to you. Might we speak more privily?"

Bethany spared her brother with a frustrated glance that held a promise to tell him everything later. "If we must," she allowed, nodding for Bran to precede her back into the anteroom. When she emerged from it a few minutes later, looking annoyed, the seneschal didn't follow her into the sitting room.

Carver's brow drew down. "What was that all about?"

The Warden took a long, slow breath, letting it out in a ragged sigh. "The viscount's son has gone missing," she informed them, her fists clenching at her sides. "And he's asked me to look into it, personally, since I've had dealings with the Arishok and Saemus has likely gone there to join up with the Qunari." She shook her head, either at the boy's foolishness or her own. "I've said I would look into it."

"Great," Carver replied. "What are we going to tell Sebastian?"

"I'm not telling him anything," Bethany shot back. "You'll take Varric and Isabela to help him, just as we promised we would. You might want to get Anders to come along, too, in case things get messy."

The warrior blinked, unused to the cool commanding tone his sister had taken. "And...what? Leave you to walk into the Qunari compound all alone?"

Bethany shook her head. "I'll get Nathaniel and Fae to come with me," she told him. "The Qunari seem to respect the Grey Wardens. We'll see if that helps get some answers ." Her face and voice softened as she turned to Leandra. "I'll be back as soon as I can, Mother," she vowed.

The elder woman looked torn between pride and fear. "You take care," she commanded her children. "Both of you."

Carver and Bethany promised to do so, and they filed out of the estate together, where the Rivaini pirate and the beardless dwarf stood waiting a bit less than patiently for them. When Bethany explained the situation, however, Isabela and Varric seemed all too happy to let her go on her separate path, leaving it up to Carver to fulfill her promise to the Chantryman .

* * *

Carver was grateful for his sister's advice, as he hung his greatblade on its wall hooks in the estate's foyer; what should have been a simple clean-up job on a rival noble family had turned into a fierce battle against demons and the undead, and Anders' presence as a healer and a fighter had proved invaluable. As far as Carver and his companions could piece together, the Harimann matriarch was an apostate mage who'd struck a deal with a demon of desire, borne out of her ambition for her family to rule Starkhaven. The political details were a bit beyond the warrior's concern, but he knew that the Harimanns had orchestrated the massacre of Sebastian's family, which was enough to justify the prince's thirst for revenge. That the revenge had been more difficult than anticipated only increased Sebastian's gratitude, and he'd vowed that the Hawkes would get a proper reward once he'd reclaimed Starkhaven from the Harimann puppet currently serving as its prince.

All in all, though, the warrior was happy to come home. Anders was the only companion to follow him back to the estate, claiming a desire to check on Merrill, which Carver was only too happy to allow. He and the renegade mage might have had their differences, but in the last two years, they'd become something approaching friends, especially since Merrill had grown heavy with child.

The braziers were burning merrily as Carver stepped into the sitting room, but at once he could tell something was amiss. Gamlen stood across the room, apparently losing an argument with Sandal, whose singular reply of "Enchantment!" to the old man's increasingly-furious demands might have been hilarious if not for Gamlen's actual words.

"Leandra," the man intoned. "Lee-ann-draa! Have you seen her?"

Carver's eyes narrowed just as Gamlen growled. "She's supposed to be with you," he pointed out. "Or even back by now."

The other man looked affronted. "Well, I haven't seen her," he exclaimed. "Been waiting around the house all day for the woman, but she never showed."

"Enchantment?" Sandal asked, almost tentatively.

"Enough of your ruddy enchantments," Gamlen snapped. "Foolish idiot dwarf! Where in blazes is Leandra?"

Ice lanced down Carver's spine. "Where is Merrill? Or Bodahn?"

A blonde-haired elven woman emerged from a shadowed corner. "Mistress Merrill is at bath," she said, haltingly. "Master Bodahn carry water." She bit her lip, clearly distressed, but unable to express herself in the King's Tongue.

Anders finally spoke up, speaking rapid Arcanum, which the elven servant was only too happy to answer with. Carver did not wait for the man's report, however; he bounded up the stairs as quickly as he dared, seeking out the bath chamber. Bodahn indeed stood before it as though on guard, and he beamed proudly at the warrior. "Messere Carver," he said in greeting. "Mistress Merrill will be happy to know you've returned! She's right inside," he told the man, slipping to one side.

Carver's nod sufficed for a reply as he pushed through the door, his heart only easing when he saw that Merrill was indeed lounging in the claw-footed tub. "There you are," he sighed, giving the Dalish elf a relieved smile.

Merrill looked confused. "Where else would I be ?"

Carver's lips quirked into a frown. "Is Mother here, in the estate? Gamlen says she hasn't been by…"

The elf sat up higher in the water, her brows knitting. "Leandra said she was just going to head out when I came up here, probably half an hour ago," she mused. "I really should have gone with her, but she wouldn't hear of it," Merrill added, biting her lip. "Perhaps Gamlen just missed her?"

"That must be it," Carver replied. "I'll go down and tell him." With a long backward glance, the warrior made his way back down to the estate's sitting room, though the mood had grown even more tense in his absence. Bethany had just arrived, looking thoroughly disgusted, but Anders seemed anxious. Before Bethany could relate what had got her so upset, the renegade mage began relaying Orana's observations; evidently, a man had shown up unannounced at the door just after Bodahn had taken Merrill up for her bath, and Leandra had left with him of her own accord. Just as Carver was about to remark on how ridiculous that notion was, his eyes caught upon a handful of flowers, left in a glass vase at the end of the writing desk. When he drew closer, he recognised them- a dozen white lilies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my excellent beta-reader, buttercup23 (AKA clafount at ff.net), and thanks to everyone who's reading this story!


	38. Fond Farewells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hawkes and some of their friends gather to send Leandra to the Maker's side.

 

The Chantry's private courtyard was small, usually reserved for sisters of the cloth in meditation or prayer, though Anders knew that this wasn't the first time that the central plaza had been covered by a funeral pyre. The wood was aged, dry oak, and when it caught, it would burn hot and strong , for a good long time. Until there was nothing left of Leandra Amell but sacred ashes...until the good woman had been reduced to the same cinders as Andraste .

The renegade mage stood in a shadowed corner, partly out of caution, though mostly out of impotent embarrassment. A day and a night previously, he had stood over Leandra's patchwork corpse as the last strands of life fled her, unable to stave off the inevitable. Carver had pleaded with him, while Bethany had begged silently, with her eyes. But there was nothing he could do; Leandra had been killed hours before they found her, in truth, kept in a semblance of life by blood magic and the desperate designs of a madman. As soon as the vile mage had been dispatched, Leandra's last tether had been severed. She hadn't been his only victim, either...the disgusting excuse for a mage had evidently been trying to reconstruct the love of his life, using pieces of women who bore her resemblance. Leandra had had the misfortune of sharing the dead woman's face almost exactly. It made Anders burn inside to know that magic had been the tool used to bring about so much destruction. Yet Leandra had faced her doom with courage and grace, thinking only of her children.

Anders was pulled from his thoughts by a familiar tickle in the back of his mind, that subtle whisper of affinity in his blood that told him another Grey Warden was near. The sensation was strong, but singular, and soon enough the Chantry's doors opened to admit the procession. Anders caught sight of Bethany lending her shoulder to the coffin. Carver supported the other side, while Gamlen and Sebastian took up the rear. The mabari, Barcus, shuffled along in Bethany's shadow. A few of Leandra's childhood friends followed close behind as the Hawkes and the unsworn Chantry brother carried Leandra's body to the piled wood, and once the coffin was firmly position at the heart of the pyre, Sebastian took up a position of prominence before it. Carver stood at his right side, while Bethany settled at his left; Gamlen and Barcus stood guard at the flanks.

He waited for the guests to arrange themselves into an orderly crowd, which included Gamlen and Merrill, Varric and Isabela, Bodahn and Sandal. The Rivaini pirate seemed positively overdressed in a gown that almost certainly belonged to Bethany. Anders even caught sight of Fenris not far beyond the steward and his son, skulking in an opposing corner from the renegade mage himself. Aveline's absence was conspicuous, but not entirely unwelcome; from what Anders understood, the Hawke twins had exchanged unkind words with the guard-captain only the previous day . "Dear friends," Sebastian Vael spoke up in his melodious timbre, breaking into Anders' thoughts and demanding his attention along with everyone else's. "We are gathered here this morning to pay tribute to a fine woman...a woman of noble bearing, whose loving kindness encompassed any and all who had the good fortune to know her."

Sebastian had to pause, for a high-pitched wail came from the crowd; a glance confirmed that Merrill was breaking down into tears, leaning heavily on Isabela, who took her to sit on a nearby stone bench . Carver tensed from his position beside Sebastian, clearly torn between comforting Merrill and standing stoically in front of his mother's unlit bonfire. The Chantry brother placed a steadying hand on the warrior's shoulder, and so Carver remained. After the elf's sobs had subsided to whimpers, Sebastian took another breath. "Leandra Amell was a great and good woman," he went on. "Born here in Kirkwall to a family in high standing, she shirked her fortune for love, and once she returned to this fair city, her devotion to her family shone through every moment of her life. I have been given the tremendous honour of commending her soul to the Maker's side. Before I do so, however, it is my privilege to invite Leandra's family to speak on her behalf." The unsworn brother took a subtle step backward, gesturing to Gamlen.

The man looked tired, and more than a little hung-over, but he did not shrink back from his duty. He was dressed in his very best clothes, though his hair was greasy, unwashed, and his cheeks held a two-day shadow of grey. Gamlen shuffled forward, taking in the crowd, which included noblemen and women of his own generation along with the rogues' gallery of the Hawkes' friends. "I...ahhh," he began, taking a hard swallow. "Leandra was my...my s-sister," the sallow man managed. "And everyone here knows we had our differences. Twenty years is a hell of a long time to go without a letter or a visit." Gamlen shrugged, almost irritably. "But...that wasn't her fault," he went on. "That woman was the most headstrong creature on the Maker's earth, and she always was." He managed a smile, and his comment drew a few nervous, breathy chuckles from the older members of the audience .

"When she was seven years old," Gamlen pressed, over the chuckles and the uncomfortable stares, "Leandra rescued a litter of kittens from the steps of Lowtown. Now, if any of you remember our father, you'll know that he hated cats. But Leandra was in love at once, with all five of the little flea-bags." He closed his eyes for the space of a breath. "Father thought she was too young to take care of them, and so he made a deal...if she could care for them all, she would get to keep them. But if even one went astray, or she spoke one word of complaint, she would lose the lot." The sole surviving Amell rasped another laugh. "Ten years she kept those damned cats, at least...and when she met her Fereldan, they went along with her." He shook his head. "That was Leandra; when she got an idea, she saw it through, no matter what happened. When she came back to me, her head never once hung in defeat, even though she'd lost her husband and her firstborn. She never once complained over the years we spent together in Lowtown, even though I...I never…" A single tear worked its way down the man's cheek, and he had to take another breath before he could continue. "I laughed at her, when she wanted to get the old estate back, you know? But she fought, and one day, she moved back into that dusty old mansion...and afterward, though I didn't deserve it, my sister gave me her time and attention, her prayers, and her love. She...didn't deserve to die ."

The old man shuffled backward, accepting Sebastian's consoling murmur with fairly good grace. Carver shared a long glance with his sister, his eyes wet with unshed tears, and he shook his head. Evidently the warrior refused to move from his place next to the pyre. With an incline of her head, the Hawke sister filled the space vacated by their uncle, her own face a mask. From his sideways angle, Anders caught sight of the girl's trembling hands, which she hid at the small of her back. Like her brother, Bethany wore fine black clothes that gave no hint of her martial occupation; unlike Carver, however, Bethany hadn't even come to her own mother's funeral unarmed...before her arms had settled behind her, Anders noted the distinctive shape of a dagger's hilt concealed by the long sleeve of the Warden's dress.

Gathering her courage, Bethany projected her voice, keeping it remarkably even. "I never imagined I would be here," she began, drawing herself up. "I know that she's...gone, but it still doesn't seem real to me. My mother was so full of life, such a big part of mine, that I'm not certain I can ever understand the hole that she has left inside me." The Warden's honey-coloured eyes scanned those gathered in her mother's memory, locking with Anders' for a flash; the renegade mage fought down the urge to flinch away, his guilt tempting him to read an accusation where there was only grief. The woman's gaze fell elsewhere after a heartbeat, a wry grimace touching her lips. "On the very day my mother was killed, I fought to save Saemus Dumar. As some of you already know, I could not." She took a slow breath. "In truth, I did not wish to." Anders leaned forward, intrigued by the subtext in Bethany's words, which had wrought a few gasps from some of the gathered nobles . "I resisted the viscount's request," Bethany went on. "Just as I did not relish the duty he gave me to treat with the Arishok, a few weeks ago. But I relented, both times, and I worked to protect this city to my best ability."

She looked over her shoulder, right at the white coffin nestled amongst the oaken logs, and then gathered herself again. "I tried and failed to protect Lowtown, and then again to save the viscount's son, because of my mother. Because she lived in this city, because she'd grown up here, because she loved these streets and these walls and all of the wonderful memories she'd made here as a child." Bethany's lips curled into a frown. "I thought that I could protect her, make her safe...and I will always ask myself if I could have done things differently, or if I could've done more to keep her with us." Her tone barely registered the emotion that Anders knew she must be feeling, but he supposed that years of hiding from templars had taught the girl how to hide her feelings. Though he supposed that it could just as well be the darkspawn that she fought on a regular basis, at that.

"But my mother is gone," Bethany reiterated, speaking over the sniffles that came from behind her and from a few people in the audience. "She has joined my father and my sibling, and she's left me an orphan. All of my struggle and sacrifice for this city seem for naught in the shadow of her absence ."

Another subtle whisper tugged at the edge of Anders' awareness, and he saw Bethany's eyes flick upward in the same instant that his own eyes were drawn to the Chantry's roof. There, two shapes emerged behind the stone lip. Anders dipped his head in greeting, and though he could not see a return gesture, he was certain that Nathaniel's keen eyes had taken note of him. All at once, the renegade mage wished for nothing so much as to rejoin his brothers and sisters. His life had never seemed to mean so much as when he stood with Nathaniel, Oghren, Sigrun, Athadra, and Justice. In that heartbeat he imagined himself walking away from his clinic in Darktown, shaking off the task he'd taken up. But the vengeful spirit that he'd once called a friend would never forgive him, much like he would never forgive himself . Anders' doubts were put to rest when Bethany's speech resumed, the pause brief enough to go unnoticed by the congregated mourners.

"Yet that is a lie," the Warden said, "for I have a lifetime's worth of memories of my mother, years of joy and safety. I shall never forget the lessons that I learned from her," Bethany vowed. "Not from rote, nor from dictation, but rather from her example. Every day of my childhood gave me another chance to learn from her mercy, her sense of duty, and her ceaseless kindness." It was then that those pale lips tipped into a smile. "The house of Amell was once noble in this city, and though I was born in a hut in the Hinterlands of Ferelden, my mother embodied every noble virtue in each task she undertook. I learnt letters and manners alongside seeding and shearing, knitting and spinning." She inclined her head, studying the courtyard's flagstones. "Anything I do, anything I am, I owe to my mother. I take comfort in knowing that, despite those last hours, most of these past years were the happiest in her life, filled with light and joy. If anyone deserves Andraste's grace and the Maker's favour, it is Leandra Amell...and I pray that my mother finds p-peace." Her voice broke at last, but Bethany did not cry out, instead retreating back to her place at Sebastian's left. Her mabari punctuated the eulogy with a doleful howl, showing that he, too, missed the Amell matriarch.

The unsworn brother had a whispered exchange with Carver, likely to make sure that the warrior had no words of his own to share. When Carver failed to move, Sebastian spoke up. "Are there any amongst those gathered who wish to share their memories of the Lady Amell?"

Silence answered the man for the space of a breath, before an older woman with steel-grey hair not unlike Leandra's own stepped into the position of prominence. She announced herself as Cecille Reinhart, one of Leandra's childhood and latter-day friends, and spoke of the games that the two girls would play together, the gossips they shared and half-baked plans they forged as adolescents. And then, surprisingly, the Reinhart woman told the crowd of Malcolm Hawke, and of how deeply and completely Leandra had fallen in love with him. Rather wisely, Anders noted, the noblewoman made no mention of Malcolm's magic ; though Leandra's marriage to an apostate would surely have been the source of much gossip in its own right, it seemed that no one wished to bring the subject up at the woman's funeral. Cecille ended by expressing her happiness at being reunited with Leandra, and relaying the devotion that Leandra showed for her family. Bethany and Carver thanked the woman for her words, and she retook her place amongst the mourners.

A few more people rose afterward, bolstered by Cecille Reinhart's example, each representing one of the great noble houses of Kirkwall. The last to speak was Guillaume de Launcet, who called himself a comte, and who'd been promised Leandra's hand in marriage. Anders sensed a shimmer of disapproval from the crowd, but none countermanded the comte's presence. Yet the man avoided scandal, hardly mentioning the broken betrothal, preferring to repeat the earlier platitudes that by now were starting to seem trite, even to Anders' patient ears. When the Comte de Launcet finally retired from the head of the crowd, Sebastian's query for any other contribution met with a more lasting silence. By then the sun hung heavy in the sky, halfway to the horizon, and Anders' shadow was was growing thicker by the minute.

"Very well," Sebastian allowed, when it was truly clear that everyone had spoken their peace. "Now if you would, join me in prayer." Anders complied automatically, and so he did not see who might have resisted the call, though he could guess well enough that Isabela and Merrill's heads would be among those unbowed. "Maker, you have heard of the deep wound that this city has suffered so recently. We do not question Your wisdom in taking Your daughter from this world, but we shall always hold her in our memories. From ashes You made her, and to ashes You shall receive her. We here gathered ask that Leandra Amell find a place at Your side, so that she may bask in the unending glory of Your holy bride, Andraste. So mote it be."

The last was echoed aloud by all of the faithful, including Anders. He felt the undercurrent of power in the ritual, nearly as sensuous as the brush of mana, and he hoped with all of his being that the words meant more than simple comfort. As the renegade mage's eyes opened, he caught sight of Bethany, Carver, Gamlen, and Sebastian as they each took up an unlit torch. At Sebastian's signal, another small procession came from the Chantry. This time, the marchers were three Chantry sisters in sunburst robes. They carefully carried a great brazier, filled with glowing charcoal, each step taking them closer to the piled oaks. When the brazier sat still on the plaza's flagstones, the priests retreated back into the Chantry.

One by one, Leandra's four sentries came to each side of the smouldering box. They lowered their cloth-tipped staves into the brazier, and each caught flame brilliantly. Hefting their torches aloft, Sebastian, Gamlen, and the Hawkes arranged themselves in a square about the pyre. After a moment's hesitation, the torch-bearers set to work, sowing flame into the waiting wood wherever their arms could reach. Their diligence paid off, for what began as isolated burns soon joined into a ring of fire. Within a handful of minutes the pyre had become a true bonfire, burning from top to bottom; spices lacing the oaken logs covered any stench of burning flesh, but soon enough the plaza grew uncomfortably hot for many of those in the courtyard.

Gamlen was the first to retreat from the flames' heat, followed not long after by Carver. The boy sought his refuge with Merrill at long last, and the elf sat between him and Isabela. In the dancing light of the fire, Anders fancied that he could see an uncharacteristic wetness in the Rivaini's eyes that should have surprised him. But he knew that Bethany saw  _something_  in the pirate, and so he tried not to dwell on Isabela's capacity for grieving anything other than her lost ship . Instead the renegade mage turned his attention back to the Warden, who'd not moved a step from her position, even as the pyre roared an arm's length away. She was fortified by her dog, who sat stalwart at her legs; if he whimpered at all, Anders could not hear it over the crackling of the bonfire. Even Sebastian couldn't stand being so close to the flames, though he'd only taken a few steps backward.

The fire burned steadily into the evening, and still Bethany did not move, even as twilight gave way to darkness and the pyre became impossible for others to look directly upon. Eventually even the dearest of Leandra's friends left, and just before full darkness fell, Carver and Varric escorted Merrill back to the estate, accompanied by Bodahn and Sandal. Anders could still sense Nathaniel and Faenathiel on the nearby rooftop, but they made no move to close in, and so the courtyard was filled only by Bethany, her hound, Sebastian, Isabela, and Anders himself. The renegade mage did not doubt that Bethany would remain until her mother's pyre was nothing but charred cinders. Anders watched as Isabela rose from the bench and stalked over to Sebastian; they shared words too soft for the mage to hear, but after a brief exchange, the unsworn brother made his own exit from the courtyard.

Only then did Anders emerge from his roost, drawing closer to the grieving girl just as Isabela did the same. Concern over Merrill tugged at him-it was a matter of weeks, now, if not days, and the shock of recent events could shorten her time further still. The renegade mage would give over to that concern soon enough, but he would not abandon Bethany quite yet.

"You look lost, pretty boy," the Rivaini drawled, just as Anders thought to speak. "Got somewhere you need to be?"

He could not begrudge the undercurrent of hostility in Isabela's tone...Anders even welcomed it, if it meant that Isabela cared for Leandra's daughter half as much as he did . "Right here," he answered gently, "until Bethany sees fit to send me away."

Isabela marshalled a retort, but it was her turn to get cut off. "He can stay," Bethany allowed, her voice much more raw than it had been earlier in the day. "For another hour or so." She was still turned toward the fire, so Anders couldn't tell, but he could guess that her cheeks were only dry by virtue of the heat of the flames.

The pirate had no words to contradict the pronouncement, while Anders had no more to offer. He would not try to console the younger woman, and neither would he demean her with his gratitude. Instead, the renegade mage took a post a quarter-circle's turn from the two women, and he let his eyes ache in the bonfire's light. After half an hour or so, Anders thought he noticed Isabela shift closer to Bethany, perhaps even drawing the younger woman into a stiff sideways embrace...though he couldn't be certain, blinded as he was by the fire. When his allotted time had come and gone, the renegade mage quit the courtyard without having to be reminded.

It took several minutes for the spots to fade from his eyes, at least enough to walk out of the Chantry, but Anders counted himself lucky that no one accosted him along the way. He worried that the templars would use the mad mage's disgusting actions against any and all who wielded magic, and that thought was nearly enough to dispel his own self-loathing...for, although the murderer's impulses had not come from magic, magic had given the man a much greater capacity for evil . Doubtless Knight-Commander Meredith would see the heinous crimes as justification for her increasingly-harsh measures against the mages in her care, unmindful of the fact that Leandra had died in spite of those measures. By the time Anders had checked on Merrill, such thoughts had him more convinced than ever in the justice of his course, and of the untenability of the status quo. Many more innocent people would have to be put to flame before the status of mages in Thedas could be settled for once and all, but Anders had always known the price of justice, and he was becoming more willing to pay it by the day .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to buttercup23 here at AO3 (AKA clafount at fantic.net) for beta-reading! You should go check her stories out!


	39. The Price Of Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirkwall seems insistent on tearing itself apart, and at least for the moment, it seems as though both Hawkes are too preoccupied by their own circumstances to help pull it back together. But will one of them be able to rise to the occasion and keep the city together?

 

"Come in," Aveline barked, before the knock had stopped sounding on her door. She regretted the decision immediately when she saw who glided through the doorway into her office. "What is it this time, Bran ?"

The man schooled his face as quickly as a Chantry mother could silence a roomful of children. "Viscount Dumar bid me to convey his gratitude for your  _excellent_  resolution of-"

"Stuff it," the guard-captain snapped, jerking her head. "And shut the door while you're at it." When the seneschal did so, she went on before he could try to oil up her ears any more. "Dumar should've come to me sooner if he wanted me to find those delegates alive, rather than mutilated in the sewer." Aveline didn't know what was worse, having the viscount trust the Hawkes more than he trusted the captain of his guard, or having Bethany let him down .

"Be that as it may," Bran allowed, intruding upon the guard-captain's thoughts. The man flinched when she fixed him with her stare, but he forged on, regardless. "The viscount does not begrudge Hawke her recent...lapses. He has experienced his own loss, after all."

Aveline nearly bit her tongue. "She flat-out turned him down when he asked her to look into the missing Qunari. Then, and only then, did he come to me about it," she growled.

The seneschal put up his hands. "It was feared by some that the guard might have been complicit," he pointed out. "And your own investigation revealed several bribes to your recruits, as you'll recall."

"They aren't my bloody recruits anymore," the woman shot back, pulling herself out of her chair. "Now what in the bloody fuck do you  _want_ , Bran? I've got a guard outfit to run, if you haven't noticed. Unless you've just gone to have Hawke spit in your face again," she forced through clenched teeth. "I seem to be out of napkins, if that's the case ."

"Yes, well," Bran said, reeling back from the force of the guard-captain's reprisal. "The viscount would like to re-open a dialogue with the Arishok. He was hoping that you might lead a complement of your own guards to parlay with the Qunari, reciprocating their own recent overtures."

Aveline's eye twitched. "You mean when their men came to talk and tied up their swords-at your suggestion-and were then murdered in Darktown by a gang of fanatics? You suppose they'll let me and mine into the compound...or out of it?" She might have laughed, if she weren't so wary of the man's answer .

The seneschal tugged nervously at the small patch of copper hair he kept at his chin. "That...was a mistake, I'll admit," he assured her. "But consider the alternative, Serah Vallen, if you would. According to Hawke's information, the Qunari will not leave until they find whatever it is they seek, and if they sense an obstacle in us…"

"Then they'll try to tear down the city from the inside out," Aveline finished for him. "I understand the desire to talk," she conceded. "Truly, I do. But have you tried sending messages? Sounding out how the giants would receive a delegation from us?"

"The time for such manoeuvering is quickly drawing to a close," Bran countered. "The viscount doubts whether or not the Arishok's answer would change whether or not we announced our intention."

The guard-captain's lips parted; she was on the verge of asking why the viscount didn't seem intent on risking any of his noble friends on the diplomatic mission, but she could well anticipate Bran's retort. Doubtless he would claim that the Qunari only respected strength, regardless of Dumar's actual reasons. Instead, Aveline looked down at her desk, considering the top-most sheaf of parchment on the stack. "Tell me truly, seneschal," she inquired. " _Have_  you asked Hawke to go?"

Bran's squirming was all the confirmation Aveline cared for, but he finally nodded with a heavy sigh. "She gave us the same reply as before," he informed the guard-captain. "So much for  _protecting the city_ ," he added, just under his breath.

That got Aveline's brow to arching. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing," the seneschal claimed with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Just something Hawke said at her mother's funeral, at the beginning of the month. She spoke of wanting to keep the city safe, but evidently her words were as ephemeral as her poor mother ."

Aveline's jaw nearly popped as she clenched it. "You watch your mouth about Hawke's mother," she warned the man. She and Bethany might have had something of a falling-out, but Aveline would not see Leandra disrespected in her presence. Not ever. "As it happens," the guard-captain allowed, "I was planning on taking a complement of my guards to the compound anyway . If the Qunari are amenable to my purpose, I suppose I can reach out to them on the viscount's behalf."

The seneschal's expression went from naked horror to frank skepticism with all the quickness of a garden snake. "And just what purpose would you have, if I might ask?"

"Justice," the guard-captain retorted. Before Bran could mount a comeback, Aveline slid the parchment she'd been considering across the desk. "Two elves killed a guard," she summarised, as the seneschal scanned over the document. "Now there's reason to believe that they're holed up with the Qunari, trying to convert, in order to avoid the hangman ."

Bran's frown spoke volumes; the woman knew what he would say even before his lips parted, but she let him say it anyway. "I understand the gravity of their crime," he began. "But surely  _you_  can understand that there are many more lives at stake than a single guard and a pair of elves, if you press this matter."

Aveline's gauntleted fist nearly made kindling of her hardwood desktop. "Those boys murdered one of my people," she reiterated. "I will see them brought to justice."

The knot in Bran's throat worked quickly. "Be reasona-"

"No," the guard-captain snapped. "If I let these elves go, then every crook, rapist, murderer, and smuggler will go flooding into the Arishok's hands at the first sign of a guardsman ."

"Do you honestly think the Qunari would take such dregs?" The man wondered, as though the idea were preposterous.

Aveline pinched the bridge of her nose. "They took Saemus," she pointed out, "despite how much tension they must've known it would cause." It was a low blow, she knew, little better than Bran's earlier comment about Leandra...but still true, for all that . "And I don't trust you or me to know what the Qunari would do in any given situation. I do know that they've lost nearly half of their men to defection and death since they got here, and I know that every convert they take will make open war come that much closer."

The seneschal turned toward the doorway, shaking his head sadly. "I suspect we've already passed the tipping point," he lamented, half to himself.

"You will not interfere?" Aveline asked, as the man sought to leave her office.

Bran threw a glance back over his shoulder at her. "You are the captain of the guard, as you've made abundantly clear during your tenure," the man pointed out. "Matters of prosecution are your domain, messere. I would beg you to reconsider, but I've got more productive subjects on which to spend my breath."

And with that the seneschal left her in peace. Aveline should have been pleased, if not exactly elated. The suspicion of corruption left a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach, though it was understandable, given the less-than-spotless record of her predecessor to the post. But the political consequences of her decisions weighed heavily on the guard-captain's shoulders...even doing nothing came with its own costs, and its own unpredictable consequences. Yet the arguments she'd made were sound. There was no way that Lowtown would be governable if the Qunari offered shelter to any criminals, even if they found out too late that the city's dungeons were a damned sight preferable to the horn-headed religion.

With the decision all but made, Aveline emerged from her office into the barracks proper, where her people lived and worked. "Stanikovic," she announced, drawing the attention of the passing lieutenant. The man snapped to attention and saluted. "Get me Donnic and Brennan, immediately." The three were not her most senior officers, but she trusted them the most, and though it gave her pause to bring Donnic with her on what might be a suicide mission, she couldn't coddle him against the danger of his chosen profession...especially since he'd been a guard even longer than she had.

"Messere," Stanikovic replied, sounding a fist against his breastplate in salute. Within moments he'd come and gone from the barracks, collecting Brennan, and then the mess for Donnic. The three guards-lieutenant fell into a line two paces in front of their captain, waiting in expectant silence.

Aveline looked at each of them in turn, her face impassive, save for an unconscious smirk that ghosted over her lips when she shared a glance with her husband. "We all know who killed Wesley," she pronounced, without preamble. She hadn't known the guardsman very well, probably because he shared his name with the deceased templar who'd taken her to wife in Ferelden, but that didn't make his life matter any less. "And now we know where they've holed up."

Brennan and Stanikovic shared a skeptical look, but Donnic spoke up first. "Where is that, Captain?" As always, he gave his deference easily, but no more conspicuously than any other guardsman...at least in public.

"The Qunari compound," the guard-captain answered him, bluntly. "One of their friends in the Alienage says they're planning to convert."

Brennan barked a laugh. "Bet they think they're awful smart," she gruffed. "We gonna go show them what's what, Captain?"

Aveline marveled at the other woman's unfailing courage, and she couldn't help a swell of pride when she saw it mirrored in the two men who stood with Brennan. "Yes, we are," she assured them. "But I'll not lie about the dangers involved. If the bastards even let us in to retrieve the fugitives, we may not come out again. "

Her words gave her lieutenants only a few moments' consideration. "We're with you, Captain," Stanikovic exclaimed after a handful of heartbeats. "Wesley deserves better than to have his killers walk free." Brennan and Donnic both voiced their support as well.

The guard-captain nodded, her face setting into a grim mask of determination. "Make sure your blades have an edge on them, and we'll rendez-vous at the front doors of the Keep in half an hour. Don't bring anyone else," she cautioned them. "We're guardsmen, not a mob." A cry of assent sounded from the lieutenants, and they broke to ready their arms and armour.

Aveline retired to her office and honed her own sword until the appointed time arrived. She was self-conscious as she hefted her shield, which had been stamped as belonging to the  _one true Ser Aveline_ , like a thousand others of its make all throughout Thedas. It had been a gift from Carver, who'd rescued it from a Lowtown alleyway a few months before and had thought of her. Now it hung heavy on her shoulders, weighed down by her own disappointment...she'd failed her friends, and she'd never be able to forgive herself, as long as she lived. The old templar, Emeric, had tried to warn her about older women disappearing. She'd even looked into one of his supposed leads, once, and she'd caught hell for raiding a nobleman's mansion only to come up empty-handed for her efforts. And then Emeric had been amongst the templars that morning, more than a year before, when Knight-Commander Meredith had sought to interdict Warden-Commander Athadra. That had been the end of the poor man's amateur detective work, to say the least. But he'd been right all along, and Aveline hadn't been able to put the pieces together in time to keep Leandra from becoming another victim. So the guard-captain would do her duty now, and keep doing it, until she became worthy of the Hawkes' friendship once more...if such a day might ever come.

* * *

Martin shuffled the cards, cut them, and then he shuffled again. Isabela caught him palming three, but she said nothing, since she already had a winning hand stuffed under her skirts . Movement from the corner of her eye caught the pirate's attention, and she felt her throat go dry when she recognised the man stalking over to her corner of the bar. "Blackjack," she breathed, shifting higher in her seat.

"Eh?" Martin grumbled, halfway through dealing the cards. "Thought we was plain' Diamondback, Issy," he wondered aloud, oblivious as always.

Isabela rolled her eyes. "Not the game, you dolt," she scolded him. "The sailor." She might better have said  _smuggler_  or  _raider_ , but it wouldn't do to start things off on the wrong foot. Martin blinked twice before he stood up so quickly that his chair fell backwards, and he made his incoherent excuses as he stalked away. It would have been hilarious, if Isabela didn't have half a mind to follow him.

But the sailor, Blackjack, was already righting the other man's chair. He wore his moustachios braided like a dwarf, and he had more golden rings and fewer teeth than Isabela herself . "Now I wonder what's got old Martin in such a hurry," the man mused in a voice burnt black by years of rum and salt-spray .

"Oh, I dunno," Isabela purred. "Could be that you tried to hang him once, and he's not to keen on another go at the gallows."

The man laughed out loud, but he put both of his fists on the table, covering Martin's half-dealt hand. "Lucky for him, I'm all outta rope," Blackjack allowed. "But I do have somethin' else that you might find...interesting."

The gears in Isabela's mind switched, and her under-table hand stopped its subtle progress to the shanker in her boot, though it did not draw an inch back up her thigh . "I'm listening," she allowed, her tongue working at the gilded stud beneath her lower lip.

"I hear tell you're lookin' fer a book," the other pirate let on, leaning forward and lacing his fingers together. His moustachios twitched when he caught the flash of hunger that crossed Isabela's face, and she silently cursed herself for giving herself away so freely. "Might be I know of someone what's got a tome they's lookin' to sell."

"Who?" The Rivaini demanded, before she could stop herself, and she regretted it instantly.

Blackjack's grin showed his teeth, which were hardly distinguishable from the gaps, so black with rot were they . "Now, now, you know better than that, lassie," he teased her. "You want that kind of information, you gotta pay."

Isabela calmed herself with a breath; she'd had false starts before, and thrown good coin away on bad leads. She was getting desperate, but she wasn't stupid. "How do I know the information's any good?"

"I seen the book myself," Blackjack boasted, though under his breath. "A great big thing, with gold letters in squiggles on the cover. S'posed to go backward to our writing, and has drawings o' them oxmen inside it." Each word he spoke brought more hope to life within the Rivaini. "Sound familiar?"

Isabela licked over her lips again, tilting her head slyly. "It might," she let on, even as her heart ticked faster. "I've got fifty silvers I could part with, for the name. If it pans out, there might be more." It was a low starting offer, but it left her plenty of room to move up, if the man proved stubborn.

Blackjack shook his head, as she'd expected him to. "You'll need more than a name," he informed her. "The bookseller's got a buyer lined up, and the deal's goin' down tonight. Once it changes hands, you'll never see the damned thing again...and the next time you see me, I'll have my rope, nice and thick."

Isabela's fists clenched, both above and below the table. She had no doubt that he would sell her to Castillon without a second thought, if he didn't think he could get a better deal from her. "Three sovs," she offered. "And another fifteen after I've got the book in my hands." The Rivaini would have to scrounge up ten sovereigns somehow, but that was much easier to do than finding the damned relic in the first place.

"I don't want your coin," the other pirate said, his smile gliding smoothly from cheshire to wolf. He leaned back in his seat, his black eyes inspecting the Rivaini in the soft light of the Hanged Man's braziers. "Remember I once told you that black would suit you better, Isabela. Glad to see I was right."

The anticipation in the Rivaini's gut twisted into disgust, and even a bit of fear. "My coin is all you're getting," she growled, refusing to buckle under the man's intrusive stare. "I'm not for sale."

Blackjack laughed as greasily as old haddock. "That's what all the doxies say before they spread their legs," he shot back, crossing his arms. Isabela tensed, her fingers creeping closer to her hidden shanker. "I set up the deal with the book," he told her. "I know who's got it, who wants it, and where it's gonna be tonight...and all that information can be yours, for an hour of your time," he promised. "What's an hour, against the rest of your life?"

"Go to hell," Isabela spat, her skin crawling. Her fingertips brushed the top of her dagger, and she could hardly resist the urge to plant it in the bastard's eye.

The man shook his head, somewhat sadly. He unfolded his arms and heaved himself up out of Martin's chair. "I guess I'll be seein' you, Isabela," he ventured, offering her that blackened smile once more before turning around.

The Rivaini let him take three steps before she stood up, blinking to keep the tears out of her eyes. "Wait," she called, through clenched teeth. The man hesitated, casting her a sidelong glance. "Half an hour," Isabela conceded, even as her stomach roiled. "And not a second longer ."

* * *

Isabela tried the lockpicks for a good minute before she gave up and used the small key that Bethany had given her, just after the funeral. There had been no words...just the cool metal pressing into the pirate's palm until her skin warmed it, and the silent acknowledgement when Isabela had stowed the key inside of her boot legging. She hadn't had cause to use the key until tonight , but her hands were shaking too badly to force her entry into the estate, like a proper thief.

She'd spent her three sovereigns on the best rum Corff could find her, and it still hadn't been enough to get Blackjack's taste out of her mouth. Then again, she'd only drunk half of the bottle; the other half stung over her skin in a desperate attempt to scrub the man's vile touch away. It left her stinking of cinnamon and sugar, and stinging in all the right places, but it couldn't cleanse her memory of what she'd done. What she'd promised never to do again. The pirate had to focus on the future, though. If Blackjack's information was reliable, she didn't have time to mope about feeling sorry for herself. She needed to get her hands on that book .

And to do that, Isabela needed Bethany. She gathered herself with a steadying breath before she blew through the estate's grand foyer and into the sitting room proper. A glance told her that the simpering dwarven steward was nowhere to be found, though Sandal was loitering near the entrance to the study. "Hello, nice lady," the boy called happily, waving from his perch.

The greeting drove a lance through the pirate's black little heart; she certainly  _wasn't_  a 'nice lady', whatever else one might have said about her . "Hello, Sandal," she replied, choosing not to burden the poor dwarf with a contradiction. "Is Beth about?"

Sandal shook his head vigorously. "Miss Beth is out," he told her, which was a voluminous exegesis for the boy, and so Isabela opted to wait for the woman's return in silence.

She didn't have to wait very long, though her ears twitched when she picked up a muttering voice that most certainly didn't belong to Bethany. Aveline appeared in the doorway instead, red thong tied about her temples as always. Lady Man-Hands blinked in surprise.

"What are you doing here?" They both asked at once, but Aveline crossed her arms, evidently content to wait for an answer. Isabela's jaw clenched, part of her missing the days when they could spit acid at one another in good fun . "I have a key," the pirate boasted, tapping the top of her bootleg absently as she sauntered closer to the guard-captain. "And you're still not welcome here."

Aveline blinked, and Isabela could tell she'd cut deep when the other woman's lips parted. "Shut up, whore," the guard-captain spat, and then she staggered back. Isabela's gloved fist had caught her right beneath her left eye before the pirate knew she'd thrown the suckerpunch, but the howling void that Blackjack's attention had blessed the Rivaini with was filled with a sudden rage . That was why she didn't dance back when Aveline retaliated, though she knew the guard-captain was stronger; Isabela struck out again, and a third time, until Aveline's boot planted low in the pirate's gut. Isabela fell backwards with a cry, hardly noticing the other woman reach up for her sword.

Isabela winced, waiting for the blow to fall, to end everything. Perhaps that would hurt less than what she knew she had to do. But as the heartbeats passed, it became clear that Aveline wasn't about to strike, and the pirate spied a firm, familiar hand gripping the guard-captain's wrist. Awkwardly, Lady Man-Hands was marched forward out of the doorway, and Isabela saw that Bethany had a dagger poised at the back of her neck. The Warden jerked her head, and Anders emerged from behind her, jogging across the room and up the stairs without a word. A few moments later a door opened, and a faint moan of pain sounded before it closed once more . Only then did Bethany release her captive, though she still did not speak as she stepped around Aveline and offered Isabela her hand. The pirate hesitated before taking it, unable to meet Bethany's gaze.

The Warden rounded on the woman she'd just handled so roughly. "If I hear you say that to Isabela again," she breathed, "I will cut out your tongue and feed it to my dog." There was no heat in her tone, no passion, just a cold assurance that even scared Isabela. The low growl that sounded from the foyer didn't lend the Warden's words any levity.

The pirate made a study of the floor, embarrassed and flattered to be defended so forcefully, even if she knew she didn't deserve it. After a moment's pause, Aveline huffed. "I'm...sorry, Isabela," she managed. "You didn't deserve that."

_Yes I did,_  a small voice berated in the back of the Rivaini's mind . "Don't mention it," she deflected. "As long as you don't mention the shiner I gave you, either." She could see the flesh on the other woman's face already beginning to swell, and her own face throbbed in sympathy.

"What are you doing here, captain?" Bethany demanded, sounding like she hadn't slept in more than a day...which might have been true, Isabela reflected, a bit guiltily.

The guard-captain squared her shoulders. "Hawke," she allowed, returning Bethany's formality. "A couple of fugitives have sought shelter amongst the Qunari, claiming they've  _converted_  to the Qun." Aveline took to pacing in front of the unlit fireplace. "The Arishok must be convinced to release them into custody. He's already feared because of Petrice," she pointed out, and Isabela dimly remembered hearing about some revered mother getting murdered by a Qunari. Something to do with the viscount's son. "If people start to think that he's above the law…"

Bethany's nostrils flared. "That sounds like a problem for you and your guards," she retorted. "Quite a few of them."

"I've tried that," Aveline countered, putting up a hand. "You know how defensible that sodding compound is...they could hold off an assault from every guard in the city if they wanted. And the men they've got guarding the gates won't let anyone through except converts...and you. I know you don't want-"

"I'm going to die!" Isabela blurted out, driven by desperation; if Lady Man-Hands got Bethany to go off and get herself killed, the pirate would never forgive her...and never be able to get the sodding book, besides . "There," Isabela breathed, when Bethany and Aveline both blinked at her. "Got your attention. Real problem."

The fear that Isabela saw stealing over Bethany's face was almost enough to make her run from the room, but the pirate stood her ground as the Warden found her feet. "What do you mean, 'Bela?" For just an instant, the tongue-cutting madwoman was gone, replaced by the innocent girl. And then the instant passed, and Bethany's expression became murderously protective again. "Is it Castillon? Is he here?"

Aveline groaned. "You can't possibly-"

"Shut up," the Warden interjected, her eyes never wavering.

Isabela felt like wilting. "Do you remember the relic? The one that Castillon wants to kill me over?" At the other woman's nod, Isabela grimaced. "A man called Wall-Eyed Sam has it." She swallowed, still able to taste Blackjack underneath the tang of rum. "If you help me get it, Castillon won't kill me," she swore, and though her eyes shined for an entirely different reason, the pirate wasn't above using the unshed tears to her advantage. " Please ."

Aveline growled through her teeth, rounding on the Rivaini. "I'm trying to keep the  _entire city_  from rioting against the Qunari," she snarled.

The pirate had to turn away, ambling closer to the cold logs in the fireplace. "Well...the two might not be entirely unrelated," she allowed, and she felt both women's eyes sharpen at her back. Aveline's grumbled demand for her to explain made her shudder, but Isabela turned to face the woman-shaped battering ram, her face setting. "I'm just saying that it might help...it's important to someone, right?"

The guard-captain's eyes widened in surprise. "Now you start being responsible?" She tore her gaze away with a long-suffering sigh. "Shit."

It wasn't Aveline's disappointment that stung, however...it was the suspicion in Bethany's eyes. "Why has this come up so suddenly, Isabela?"

The pirate wanted to tear her hair out, but instead, she nervously wrapped a lock around her finger. "I've had my ear to the ground for a long time," she countered. "Sam's kept the book for years, but he's just now decided to talk to black-market dealers all over Lowtown...it didn't take me long to get wind of it." Especially since one of those dealers had her in his lap only a few minutes before...but she didn't see fit to mention that fact. "I have a description of the book," she went on, distracted. "It's the right one."

Those honey-coloured eyes, only a shade different than Isabela's own, narrowed dangerously. "You never mentioned that this relic was a book," the Warden pointed out, hardly above a whisper. The pirate could practically see the cogs moving behind her face. "You said you didn't know what it was."

"And I don't," Isabela insisted, truthfully enough. "I know it's a codex, written in a foreign tongue, and I know some powerful people want to get their hands on it. And that's all I know," she swore, not truthfully at all. "Honestly, what does it matter?" The Rivaini asked, uncertain whether she spoke of the book or of her own need to find it. "It'll save me from Castillon, so I need it." She had to believe that still mattered. She  _had_  to.

Bethany's face grew blank, as though frosted with a layer of ice; Isabela wanted to scream, to bowl the Warden over and melt the wall she sensed growing up between them, but she still had Blackjack on her tongue, and she knew that Bethany deserved better than that. "Alright," the mage allowed, at last. "We'll go after the book."

"You're joking!" Aveline barked, advancing on Bethany, who still hadn't put her dagger away.

The Warden did not retreat a step. "If you want me to see the Arishok," she told the guard-captain, "you'll not breathe another word until we've got this sodding relic for good and all." After a few heartbeats passed in silence, Bethany returned her attention to Isabela. "Where and when?"

The pirate's lips parted, and all at once the cruel irony hit her. "A warehouse in the foundry district of Lowtown," she breathed. "In about an hour." It wouldn't be too far from the tunnels where they'd found Leandra's patchwork corpse, and Bethany's mask could not hide the fact that she knew it. "He's going to pass it off to a gang of Tevinter mages," Isabela went on, "so we'll want to bring a sword...or twelve."

Aveline turned on her heel and went for the stairs, until Bethany called out after her. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To get Carver and Anders," the guard-captain exclaimed. "So we can get this farce over with."

"You will stay right there," Bethany commanded. "Both of you." Then she stalked past Aveline, disappearing up the steps to the estate's second floor. Isabela stood with Aveline in silence for several minutes, interrupted only once by another pained cry from above them; now that the pirate's head was a bit clearer, she felt her stomach bottom out, understanding the only possible source of such a sound .

Not long after, Bethany descended the stairs, having donned her Grey Warden armour and weapons for the first time since she'd burnt her mother. When Aveline saw that she was alone, the guard-captain scoffed. "Where's your brother?"

"He won't be coming," Bethany replied as she reached the bottom of the steps and made for the foyer.

Aveline rolled her eyes and moved to follow the Warden. "Why in blazes not?"

Isabela could have kicked the oblivious girl, if her own solar plexus wasn't still aching. "Because," she drawled, sidestepping the other women smoothly just before they reached the front door, so that neither would be able to see the pirate's regret. "Merrill's having her baby ."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to buttercup23 for her excellent beta-reading skills! And thanks to everyone who's read and enjoyed this story so far!


	40. INTERLUDE: Just Let Them Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Cassandra have a nice, civilised meal as the dwarf's interrogation continues.

"Are you sure about this?" The Seeker taps her chin, like she's weighing him up for a slaughter. "You're saying the Champion was  _asked_  to go to the Qunari?"

The not-so-beardless dwarf gruffs a laugh. "I suppose you think she planned the entire thing?"

Cassandra's brow arches. "Considering what it led to…"

"Come on, Seeker," Varric chuckles. "I'm not going to sell Hawke short, but nobody could have foreseen the way that all of that would go down." He shrugs, shifting in his seat to get some blood moving in his legs again . "Or do you still think I'm lying to protect my friend?" Or to protect his own ass, at least .

The woman takes to pacing again, unable to sit still; Varric wonders if he's boring her. "There are elements of your story that...make sense," she concedes. "And you couldn't have known about them otherwise."

Given that he made up most of those elements himself, Varric seriously doubts this, but he keeps his suspicions tucked away in his breast pocket. "Well, that's a relief," he sighs. "I want this story to be told," he insists, sitting forward. "You're not the first person to get it all wrong. I think I owe Hawke that much." If he can keep the Seekers off of Junior and Sunshine, the past few days will have been worth the hassle . Even if it means lying about their dearly-departed sister.

"Very well," Cassandra allows, coming to a stop by the fireplace. "Continue."

The dwarf licks over his lips, deciding to take a gamble. "No," he retorts, doing his best impression of the sodding Arishok.

The Seeker's frown is almost enough to make him reconsider. "Excuse me, dwarf," she intones. "I was not aware you had a choice in the matter."

"I've been here for three fucking days," Varric points out, crossing his arms irritably. "In all that time I've had a couple of bowls of grey soup, a few jugs of water, and two nights on a lumpy bed."

The woman's gloves creak loudly with the force of her clenched fists. "You are not a guest, Varric. I would have thought the armed guards had made that perfectly clear to you ."

The dwarf rolled his eyes. "I've heard of captive audiences before, but a captive storyteller is going too far," he grouses. "Like I said, I want to tell this story. I've given it to you as straight as I can remember for three whole days. The least you can do is give me a razor and something decent to eat." He furrows his brow just like Barcus used to do whenever the mutt wanted another scrap from Varric's table. "Maybe a beer ?"

"You have already gotten a mouthful of brandy," Cassandra reminds him tartly .

"Yesterday," the dwarf counters, his face falling. "Look," he says, holding out his hands. "There's no reason we can't have a nice, civilised conversation over a meal. I'll have some beer, you can drink some wine if you like. It'll get you a lot more story than just waving your knife around."

The Seeker grimaces at him, and he thinks she's on the verge of testing out his theory about the knife, but instead she snorts. "Are you trying to talk me into setting you free, dwarf?"

"Of course I am," Varric concedes, as though it's obvious. " You can even think I'm trying to get you to join me in bed. I don't think Hawke would mind, but I warn you, Bianca's the jealous typ e." He knows he hasn't overreached when those thin Nevarran lips quirk into a ghosted smile, and he breaks out into a grin. "What do you say? A good steak and a pitcher of ale. Maybe a bath and a shave, first. Then I promise I can curl my tongue all night long, if you want ."

That barely-there smile fades, and Varric thinks he's gambled a bit too dangerously, but the Seeker turns away from him and stalks to the door. "Escort our friend to the baths and let him get cleaned up," she tells Knuckle-dragger.

The dwarf wants to warn Mouth-breather against pissing in his ale, but somehow, someway, he finds the resolve to keep his big mouth shut as he waddles up the steps. The helmeted Seeker doesn't speak the whole way to the bathing chamber, which suits Varric just fine, and when they make it to the room, Knuckle-dragger only goes in to make sure there aren't any windows. "Make it quick, short man," the Seeker barks. "Lady Pentaghast will not be delayed by your antics."

Varric sweeps into a sarcastic bow and shuffles through the door without further reply, taking a minute to let his eyes adjust to the lower candlelight of the room. When he gets his bearings, the dwarf meanders over to the washbasin, which still has its handpump intact. A quick test draws a few splashes of water from the old pipes, though it takes a few tries before the liquid comes out clear. The water's cold, but Varric knows better than to ask his gaolers for a brazier; even witty dwarves have to run out of luck some time. So he makes do as best he can, scrounging a dusty soapcake and one of Junior's old razors that have somehow survived the looting .

A few minutes later, the dwarf emerges from the bathroom, his jaw blessedly bare once more. A few nicks sting, but given the circumstances, Varric can't complain too much. "Now was that so hard?" He badgers the sentry, who doesn't deign to reply. The rhythm of the last few days has gotten easier to bear, but the dwarf looks forward to a decent dinner, regardless. "There'd better be beer," he mumbles under his breath, taking the stairs one step at a time. The Rivaini's graffiti on the bannister makes him chuckle for a second, before he remembers just where he's at in the story.  _Fuck, it's hard to keep this shit straight,_  he laments silently...or, at least, he's pretty sure it's silent. He's talked so much over the last couple of days, it's hard to tell the difference between the sound of his thoughts and the sound of his voice.

Instead of the parlour, Knuckle-dragger leads him to the next door down. The dining room. Varric feels the urge to weep when he spies the earthenware pitcher at the centre of the dining room table, but he holds himself in check, mustering as much dignity as he can manage during his waddle over to the chair that's been pulled out for him. Cassandra stands in the corner, seeming content to watch. "You know," the dwarf observes, "this doesn't really work unless you siddown, too."

"The food has not been poisoned, I assure you," the Seeker proclaims.

Varric looks over his plate and tries not to grimace. The knotty, gristled meat on it might, once, have belonged to a cow...but the carrots certainly didn't come out of any ground he's ever seen. And there's some mushy lentil crap that Knuckle-dragger and Mouth-breather will probably regret having fed him later on tonight . But Varric forgives the poor food when he pours himself a cupful of ale from the pitcher; a quick sniff tells him that it's probably not been pissed in. A sip later, and the dwarf's ready to praise Andraste.

"I take it the fare is to your satisfaction, Tethras?" The Seeker inquires, though her tone isn't quite dour enough to sour the dwarf's mood.

"I'd feel a whole lot better if you sat down and ate something, too ," Varric reiterates, trying some of the lentils. The paste isn't quite as disgusting as it looks...though after the gruel, he isn't sure he's able to be objective about it. But there's no denying that the beer hits all the spots that water's missed since this ordeal started. "Come on, Cassandra," he cajoles his interrogator. "You could stand to put a little meat on underneath all that steel." He considers waggling his eyebrows for emphasis, but he wants to be able to keep his teeth when he's done telling her what she wants to hear.

Finally the Seeker relents, taking the chair across the table from him. It doesn't take Mouth-breather a minute to have her plate ready, and Varric's happy to see that it's not any better than his.  _Guess being a Seeker doesn't exactly pay well_ , he muses as he takes a deeper sip of ale. "Now, you see?" He probes, after a hearty swig of ale. "No threatening posture required." He smiles encouragingly when the woman takes a few bites, and a bit of the tension between them breaks as they fall into a pattern of eating and drinking. The Seeker doesn't even object when Varric splashes some ale into her own cup.

"I have a question," the Seeker broaches, after a few minutes of relative silence.

Varric makes a thoughtful noise, nursing a forkful of his stringy meat. "If it's got anything to do with Hawke or her friends," he warns her, after he swallows, "it'll have to wait 'til we're finished. Otherwise, I'm all ears."

Cassandra looks like she wants to take the warning as a challenge, but after a moment, she settles back in her seat, sipping from her own cup. The face she pulls at the taste is enough to tell Varric that he's had far too much water lately. "Why did you return to Kirkwall? What is left for you here?"

"Other than your darling company?" The dwarf rebuffs, taking another bite as an excuse to think. "Honestly, I don't know. I just...this place is where I lived, where I ran my businesses and made my contacts," he reasons. "I'm not ready to give up on it yet."

The Seeker rolls his reply over in her mind a few times. "Even after everything that's happened? After the Wardens and the Champion-"

"Ixnay, lady," Varric cuts in, tossing back the rest of his cup and filling it anew from the steadily-decreasing pitcher. "We'll get to all that, don't you worry."

Seeming placated, if not exactly content, the woman goes back to eating for a time. "You cannot expect me to trust you," she points out, eventually. "How do I know you've not been sent here to some nefarious purpose?"

That makes the dwarf chuckle. "I've had it up to my eyebrows with nefarious purposes," he replies. "But, if it makes you feel better, and assuming your two thugs don't just shank me in the gut when the time comes, you all can escort me to the city gates and see me on my way after we're through here."

"We may do that," Cassandra considers, eyeing him closely as he finishes the last scraps of his meal. "Are you ready to continue?"

Varric nods to her own plate. "Looks like you're not quite done," he observes, topping up his piss-poor beer. The frustrated sigh she gives him is worth her withering look, but soon enough, the Seeker eats the last of her rations. "Now I'm ready," the dwarf gruffs, after another long sip of beer. His tongue buzzes with the familiar tingle, and he pushes the earthenware plate to one side, settling back in his seat. "Where were we, again?"

The Seeker doesn't order him back into the parlour, to the dwarf's relief. "I believe you were just about to explain how the Champion and Isabela started a war," she reminds him, lightly .

"Oh, right," Varric says, steepling his fingers as he searches his memories, both of the events and of the legends that have grown up around them. "I was at the Hanged Man, like always, trying to keep my family name going with the Merchants' Guild and tracking down my ungrateful brother. I think he was in Nevarra at that point...shit, I forget," the dwarf huffs, shaking his head. "Anyway," he presses on, before Cassandra can throw another book at him. "The Rivaini and Hawke came to fetch me, and we met up with Aveline and the Elf just outside the bar."

"And where were your other companions?" The Seeker cuts in, leaning forward attentively. "Anders? Merrill? The blood mage seems to have followed you everywhere, and the trouble with the Qunari sounds like just the kind of trouble the rebel Warden would get up to."

The dwarf's brow furrows. "They were...indisposed," he replies, wondering how he'll thread this needle. "You see, Daisy was kind of...having a...kid. In Blondie's clinic." He winces, for the Seeker's chosen that moment to take another drink from her cup, and she nearly chokes on it. "I know; terrible timing, right?"

When Cassandra recovers her breath and wipes her eyes, she fixes him with a cold look. "And you did not see fit to mention her  _condition_  before now?"

Varric shrugs. "Didn't think it was relevant until now," he deflects. "So she was out of commission for the big fight, and three or four months after." He pulls a grimace, going for broke. "Besides, you're telling me you didn't know already?" The woman hesitates, so Varric refills his cup and takes another drink. He should be more careful, but he's thirsty, and he's sick and tired of water.

"There were...conflicting reports, from other witnesses," Cassandra allows. "One nobleman who claims to have been there for the attack swears that he saw someone using magic against the Qunari," she says, thoughtfully. "If Anders and Merrill were out of the picture, that must mean that Bethany was there."

Now it's time for the dwarf to put his mouth where his coin is-figuratively speaking, of course. "Now that's where you're wrong," he ventures, brushing a gloved hand over his smooth chin. "Sunshine wasn't anywhere near the place."

The Seeker looks skeptical, but not murderous...or, at least, no more murderous than usual. "I find that difficult to believe," she replies, crossing her arms on the dinner table. "She was present in the city for her mother's death and funeral...why would she leave so soon afterward?"

"How the fuck should I know?" Varric shoots back, his tone casual, though his mind works feverishly. "I already told you that Sunshine came and went to her own schedule, and she never, ever told anyone else about her business with the Wardens. If I had to guess, I'd say she was in some hole in the ground, burning up some darkspawn," he offers. "But if you really wanna know, you'll have to find the Warden-Commander, and ask her real nice-like."

That muscle twitches in her jaw again, and Varric knows he's tiptoeing just up to the edge of the ice. "We could just as easily have this conversation in a dungeon, Tethras," she remarks evenly. "My men are well acquainted with more productive methods of persuasion."

The dwarf holds up his hands. "You've made your point, Seeker," he allows. "No more mentioning you-know-who until she comes up in the story. But are you ready to listen to the story yet, or not?"

The woman drums her fingers on the tabletop for a few heartbeats. "Continue," she commands, after a moment. "But if you goad me further, you will reap the benefits, dwarf."

"I understand, Seeker," Varric admits, dipping his head in an approximation of respect. He holds the pose for the space of a breath, closing his eyes and conjuring up that unforgettable night. It had all started so promisingly, too, before Isabela and Bethany showed up and skull-fucked it all to pieces . "Like I said, it was me, the Rivaini, the elf, Aveline, and Hawke . And Bianca, of course, but she never left my side in those days. Rivaini tells me that she's got a line on her book in the foundry district, right down the road from the Hanged Man. I'm game for helping her out, just like Hawke. Aveline wants to get the whole thing over with, and Elf's there because he's heard there's some Tevinter mages he can put his sword through, no questions asked.

"When we get there, though, there aren't mages waiting for us...not Tevinter ones, at least. The building's being cased by a whole pack of Qunari, and they take one good look at the Rivaini and decide she isn't worth asking questions over. I guess you'd say that was the first real battle inside the city; those bastards didn't give up an inch, but Hawke fought them like a woman possessed. Bianca could barely keep up, and  _she's_ a repeating crossbow.

"Hawke didn't start the fight, but she finished it. 'I guess we'll just tell the Arishok that we killed his men by accident, if he asks,' she said, to nobody in particular.

"The Rivaini must've taken it personally, because she went all quiet for a minute. 'Yes, about that,' she fessed up. 'The relic belongs to the Qunari.'

"'If I didn't know before,' Hawke growled, 'I bloody well do now.' Then she kicked the dead Qunari's head, just for emphasis. 'And it looks like they want it back.'

"That was obvious, at least to me. I won't lie...right then, I figured the Rivaini was gonna take off running. But she held her ground. 'I've always known what the relic is,' she admitted. 'I just didn't want to worry you...or Sunshine.' And before you interrupt me, Seeker, yes, I know she really said 'Bethany.' You don't question my narrative style, I won't question your willingness to kill handsome dwarves .

"It turned out that the book was some philosophical treatise, penned by the Ashkaari Koslun, the only horn-head the Qunari still let have a name because he founded their whole way of life. Somehow, the Orlesians had got their cheese-loving mitts on the thing, and were trying to trade it back to them when the Rivaini took it off their hands. Castillon made that the price for her trouble over the slaves...it was why she'd come to Kirkwall, why the Qunari were there, and why neither of them could leave.

"Aveline was all in favour of getting the book and marching it straight into the compound, but it wasn't her decision to make. After a little tete-a-tete, Hawke picked the thief she knew over the eight-foot horn-head she didn't, and promised to give the relic to Isabela. Once we got inside the warehouse, we found the deal in progress, with another gang of Qunari thrown in for spice. In the confusion, both Wall-Eyed Sam and the Rivaini slipped away, and by the time we'd all fought our way out of there, the pirate was gone and Sam's body had a goodbye note pinned to it.

"I felt sorry for Sam; he and I'd done some business, back in his smuggling days, and he meant well. But I felt even sorrier for Hawke...she'd have to break the news to Sunshine, whenever the girl came back. The note said that the Rivaini was sorry for all the trouble she'd caused, and that she didn't want the Hawkes in any more trouble with the Felicisima Armada than she'd already given them.

"Hawke didn't say anything for a minute, but she gave me the note, and told me to keep it safe for Sunshine. Then we had to go deal with the Arishok, in his compound down by the docks. When we made it to the gate, they wouldn't let all of us and the city guard in; just Hawke, Aveline, and a few of her picked men.

"The Arishok talked to Hawke about the relic, and about the elves that he was sheltering...if that's even the right word for it. They claimed that the guard they'd killed had raped their sister, and no one would believe them. Aveline promised to look into it, but she insisted the elves come with her to face their own justice...which the Arishok refused to allow. Hawke said she would've done the same as the elves, which apparently didn't calm anyone down, because not long after that, Hawke and Aveline came running out of the compound. A couple of guards had been spitted by the spear-chuckers for good measure, and suddenly, the long years of tension finally came to a head.

"There were more Qunari than anyone could have thought. Within an hour, they were crawling all over Lowtown, killing anyone who tried to stand and fight them...except the few of us who were able to kill them, first. It was an uphill fight all the way to Hightown, where the ox-men were heading. They'd planned the whole thing out for years...probably since they landed. At one point, in the market square, I thought even Hawke was done for when a couple of Qunari mages started working her over. But then Meredith shows up with her big red sword and cuts through them like they're wax statues. Now, Hawke and Meredith don't exactly get along, on account of Sunshine and the Grey Wardens, but right then they decided to work together against the Qunari. Even Orsino pitched in to get Hawke, me, Aveline, and Elf into the Viscount's Keep. He and Meredith stayed behind to keep more Qunari from taking us by surprise.

"The keep was where the Qunari were gathering the nobles. The Elf said they'd be given a choice...to convert or die. They'd already turned the keep's defences against us, so it took Hawke and the rest a while to make it back to the viscount's throne room. By the time we made it, Marlowe Dumar's head was repainting the carpet, and the Arishok was standing on the steps to his throne, waiting for Hawke. I was just about ready to piss myself when he told her to prove herself by fighting a couple of soldiers from his honour guard...well, more like five. And she made Bianca cry a little bit, because she took them apart all by herself.

"Rather than being pissed, or even scared, the Arishok seemed to like Hawke more than anything after she'd killed his men. He held her up as an example to the nobles. Called her 'basalit-an' and everything. Then he asked her how she would end the war without the Tome of Koslun, but before she could answer him, the Rivaini showed up out of nowhere. I almost had a heart attack.

"She walked right up to the Arishok like he was handing out free rigging, and gave him the book with her own hands. 'I'm sure you'll find it mostly undamaged,' she quipped, as though she were handing him a borrowed deck of cards.

"The Arishok was beside himself. I think he might have smiled-you remind me of him, in that way, Seeker-and Hawke traded barbs with the Rivaini for about a minute before he'd collected himself. He demanded that the pirate come back with him to Par Vollen, presumably to face up to her crime. When Hawke stepped between them, he said that the Rivaini would  _submit to the Qun_. I told her to get her ass the hell away from him, and Hawke told the big man that that just wasn't gonna happen.

"So he challenged her to a duel. Now, I don't want to seem like I'm overselling my friend, but by then Hawke was hurting. Hell, we all were. That last fight just to impress the Arishok took a lot out of her, and I wasn't too sure she'd be able to see the other side of another one. But it was a choice between fighting the Arishok one-on-one, having an all-out brawl between the Qunari and the rest of us, or letting them take the Rivaini away to parts unknown. And...you know which option she picked," Varric gruffs, finishing off the last of his beer.

A dimple forms between Cassandra's eyebrows. The dwarf knows he's had a little too much to drink when he notices how cute it makes the Seeker look, but he gives his tongue a rest. "Wait," the woman ventures, when it's clear that the story's finished. "What happened? How did she win?"

Her tone tells Varric she's hooked, rather than impatient, and so he indulges her. "They squared off on the floor," he goes on. "The fight itself didn't take too long...maybe five minutes, maybe six. They danced around for a bit, lunging and rolling. In the end, Hawke took a blow from the Arishok's axe that broke all the ribs on the right side of her body, and she stuck her sword through the bottom of his chin up through the crown of his head. Made him look like he had three horns.

"Hawke stayed on her feet long enough for Knight-Commander Meredith to show up and declare her the Champion of Kirkwall. Then she passed out, and the Rivaini took Aveline to one side, to give Hawke and Sunshine a message." The dwarf lets out a slow breath, sure he's got the story straight, since it more-or-less happened that way. Varric remembers how it took Anders a day and a half to keep Bethany from dying, and another day and a half to wake her up. None of them had got much sleep, until she did.

"What did Isabela say?" Cassandra demands, a catch in her voice.

"That I don't know," Varric answers, honestly. "Whatever it was went from Aveline's lips to the Hawkes' ears, and none of them have ever told another soul. Then the Rivaini disappeared that very night...for a couple of years. When Sunshine found out, she took it pretty hard." He leans forward, resting heavily on his elbows. "You seem confused, Seeker," he observes.

The woman shakes her head, slowly. "It just seems so...unbelievable. I thought the stories were exaggerated."

"Hmm," Varric muses. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were developing a little crush."

Cassandra's lips dip into a frown. "Don't be ridiculous," she scorns. "The Champion just seems like a remarkable woman, worthy of my respect."

"Mmm-hmm," the dwarf retorts, trying not to grin too loudly.

"If what you're telling me is true," she goes on. Then she shakes her head more fully. "If you are, then...what happened at the Gallows may be far different than we assumed." She fixes him with that stare, the one that says she's back to business. "I need to hear it."

Varric takes a long breath. "Let's say I tell you," he says. "Then what? Are you hunting for an infamous warrior and her apostate sister? Is that what this is about?" His own eyes narrow as he considers. "...Or is it simple revenge?"

"No," the Seeker vows, holding up a hand. "It's not that."

He swallows, leaning back in his chair. "Then what about me? If I tell you something you don't want to hear, will you still let me go?"

Varric's heart nearly stops in the pause that follows, but then the woman nods. "I will let you go," she promises, and for some reason, he believes her.

"Well," he gruffs, steepling his fingers. "Now we're talking ."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to buttercup23 for her dedication to beta-reading this story! And to everyone who's read, especially anybody who's commented!


	41. The Two Champions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Champion of Kirkwall is inconsolable, and the Champion of Redcliffe offers a bit of unsolicited advice.

 

"Champion," Bodahn Feddic exclaimed, sweeping into a deep bow. "It is truly an honour to see you again...though I wish it were under better circumstances." He moved aside as he rose, gesturing the armoured woman into the estate's main room. "Your travels didn't trouble you overmuch, I hope."

Athadra inclined her head to the dwarf who'd once journeyed with her from Lothering to Redcliffe, and thence to Denerim. "It were certainly warmer underground," she commented, shrugging out of her traveling cloak and hanging it by the fireplace. A bit of snow still clung to the shoulders from the light dusting outside, early for the season. "How is she?"

Bodahn tugged distractedly at his beard. "Messere Bethany is...still indisposed, as far as we can tell," he informed the elven Warden. "Serah Anders says that she's in fine health, but she hardly moves from her room, and won't eat unless Messere Carver or I bring her her meals ."

The Commander frowned, recognising the signs all too well , and she hoped she wasn't too late. "Thank you for the summons, Bodahn," she allowed, and then she moved toward the stairs.

"It was actually Sandal who came up with the idea," the dwarf pointed out, just before Athadra began her climb.

She stopped on the bottom step, giving the younger dwarf an appraising look. "Is that true, Sandal?"

The boy's brilliantly-blue eyes shined with reflected firelight. "You still miss the witch-lady," he pronounced, with nearly infinite gravity.

"That I do," Athadra admitted in her battle-roughened voice. She gave Sandal a nod for good measure before she turned, hauling herself up to the estate's second floor . A door opened as she passed, and the Commander stopped short, curious eyes taking in the sight of Merrill's drawn face.

The Dalish elf blinked in surprise, pausing in the doorway to the bathing chamber, wearing little more than a lambswool shift. Her messy hair was still wet, falling in uneven locks to her jaw. "I'm glad you've come," she pronounced at last, managing to find a tired smile.

The Warden offered the other woman an appreciative quirk of her lips in turn. "I hear you've got someone else to call 'Champion', now...but you managed to miss out on all the fun."

Merrill bit her lip, drawing the shift more tightly about herself. "I don't think I would've been much help," she deflected. "Even if I didn't have a pretty good reason to sit out the battle."

"That's not true," Athadra whispered, looking the other elf up and down. "You're a powerful mage, and loyal to those you love." She knew Merrill hadn't really forgiven her for putting Carver in his place, back in Ferelden, but she didn't begrudge the Dalish elf of her protectiveness . "How is the little halfling?"

Merrill's eyes flashed for a moment, before she caught sight of the teasing smirk Athadra wore. "Her name is Paqua," she informed the Commander. The child chose that moment to make its presence known, though the walls were thick enough that Athadra could only pick up on the sound through her left ear. "And it sounds like she's hungry," the Dalish elf pointed out. The Commander took a sidestep and gestured for Merrill to go tend to her child. Just as Athadra turned to resume her path to Bethany's room, however, the Dalish elf spoke up uncertainly. "Champion?"

The Commander paused, looking back over her shoulder, spying the other woman through the curtain of her own tumble-down hair. "Aye?"

"You'll take care of her, won't you?" Merrill ventured, her eyes glowing with concern. "Bethany?"

Athadra's brows knitted, and she took a long, considering breath. "I'll do me best," she allowed. "Make sure Carver don't come barging in," the woman insisted. "Pull out the last resort if he won't listen."

Merrill tilted her head, curious. "Last resort?"

"Threaten not to fuck him," the elven Warden supplied, taking far too much pleasure in the fire that danced beneath Merrill's facial tattoos . "Now go on, before he comes running to fetch you." With a parting wave, Athadra stalked down the hall to the door she knew concealed the other Hawke. She flared her mana briefly to announce her presence, since the other woman would sense it as surely as any knock, and pushed through the doorway.

The darkness that met Athadra's elven eyes was total, and the cloying, musty scent of bedsheets too long unchanged clawed at her nose and throat. "I know you're here," the Commander announced, as she shut and latched the door blindly behind her. "And you're not quite dead, yet." Silence was her only reply. The familiar itching in her blood had Athadra's instincts rising, the utter blackness and the closeness of the taint putting her in mind of the Deep Roads . Unseeing, she lifted her palm, and brought a blue fireball to life upon it. The elven Warden quickly located a candelabra, and only once it had brightened the room enough for her keen eyes did she take more careful note of her surroundings.

Two armour stands stood along the near wall, one to each side of the door. One held Bethany's Grey Warden plate and padding, which she'd worn during her fight with the Arishok. It had been cleaned but not repaired, and the right side of the breastplate had been buckled inward by a terrible blow that had Athadra's ribs aching in sympathy. The other stand held a pristine set, lighter, made of leather and iron and chain. The boots and left gauntlet were decorated with spikes, while the right arm had no protection at all below the elbow, and the whole set was tied together with a blood-coloured cloak. It was impressive, despite the fine layer of dust that had collected upon it...and much of the rest of the room .

"Twenty-one days," the elven Warden mused aloud, moving to the writing desk beside the four-poster bed. "Since you earned that chainmail get-up," she went on, twisting the chair around to sit back-to-front, her chin resting on the old wood of the high back. The chair's legs creaked under the weight of her own heavy plate, but the wood held. "Eighteen days since you opened your eyes."

Those honey-coloured eyes were open now, bloodshot from being held that way too long or from too many days of crying. The woman they belonged to was lying on her side, wrapped up in her filthy sheets but otherwise naked. She didn't blink, didn't even acknowledge the Commander's presence, but the shallow rise and fall of her chest told Athadra that she still lived.

And it was the Commander's job to keep her that way. "You're hurting," she allowed, in a tight whisper. "Not somewhere that Anders can fix...though, from what I've heard, he might have wanted to try way back when." Her scarred cheek dimpled with her smirk, which only grew when she saw those brown eyes twitch. "I know why, and believe me, I understand."

That brief flash turned into a blink, and Bethany's face tightened. "You can't," she husked, her voice too long unused. A pool of moisture gathered on the upturned side of the woman's nose, while the other eye leaked silently into the dirty pillow. "She's gone."

The Commander's throat went dry as she remembered herself speaking those two exact words, to Alistair, years before . She'd sounded every bit as hopeless, then, but she hadn't had the luxury of idleness...at least not at the time . "For now," Athadra pointed out. "But you yet breathe, and you don't know that she does not. So there is hope that you will see her again, short of dying."

Bethany blinked thrice more, shifting only enough to wipe the pool of tears from her nose. "They say I should forget her," the human mage informed her companion. "That she's...she would never…" Her voice strangled away to nothing, her shoulders shuddering in a silent sob. "I can't...I don't…"

"It's alright, child," Athadra breathed, to the girl who was only a year her junior. "They didn't know her like you did. They didn't love her, like you did...like you still do." Her own heart clenched at the renewed wave of anguish that washed over Bethany's features, but the elven Warden did not shrink back, either from the other woman's pain or from the memories of her own long-lost love. "Like I said, I understand. And I ain't dragging you out of here until you're ready."

The human mage shifted where she lay, bringing her head higher on the pillow, though she didn't quite sit up. "...What makes you…" She began, swallowing thickly. "What do you know, Commander?"

A bit of moisture gathered at the Commander's eyes. "Athadra," she corrected, gently. A hint of shame sounded from deep within her at the spasm of fear that the word elicited in the girl she'd once known so well . "You've been proclaimed the Champion of Kirkwall," Athadra went on. "Saved the city from getting burnt to the ground. You've earned the right to call me by my name, and to tell me to piss off, if the mood strikes." Her cheeks ached with the depth of her grin. "Not sure I'll listen, though ."

Bethany frowned, confusion bending the mask of apathy she wore. "You mean...I'm not…"

"You'll always be a Warden," Athadra insisted, her smile fading. "But...remember, when you first saw me, two years ago?" The other woman rolled onto her back and nodded up into the canopy. "What did I tell you?"

The human mage considered for a long moment, until the Commander worried that she'd gone back to shutting the world out. "You said you wished I weren't under your command," Bethany supplied. "I didn't know what that meant, at first…"

Athadra shifted in her seat, crossing her forearms over the back of the chair and resting her scarred cheek on her gauntlets. "But you came to learn, fairly quickly. I never wanted you to have to follow my orders, to take the risks that my commands entail." She let out a long breath. "And now you don't have to, anymore, Beth. You're beyond my reach." The elven Warden closed her eyes, letting her good ear take in the subtle crackles of the candleflame and the human's breathing. "We stand as equals...and friends, I hope."

A rustle told Athadra that Bethany was shifting on the bed, but the Commander did not open her eyes to inspect the motion. "I'd like that," the other mage rasped. "...Athadra," she amended, a bit hesitantly.

The name felt good on the Commander's ears, welcome for the first time in months, since the last time she'd sought Zevran's company. Athadra sat up straighter, and she nodded her approval when she saw that Bethany had piled up her pillows into a sort of chair, as well. "Now, I believe you asked me what I knew about...this?" She gestured to the woman, wrapped up in her filthy sheets, her hair bunched in greasy knots. "For twenty-six days after I killed Urthemiel, I lay in a similar state in Denerim." No hint of a smile remained on the elf's face as she relayed the fact .

Bethany's eyebrows pulled together, the nascent confusion giving way to something deeper...closer to concern. But it still merely tinged the edges of her mask of desolation. When her lips parted, she spoke but a single word. "Why?"

"Because she left me," Athadra forced through her clenched teeth, her bare palms pressing into the top of her chair, as a fresh echo of that distant pain and anger sounded from somewhere deep inside her. "She ran away, just as I should've known she would." The elven Warden's vision swam in the room's low light, and she had to close her eyes against her own tears once more.

The reply seemed to stymie the more freshly-aggrieved woman for a moment, and when Athadra caught sight of her, she couldn't begrudge Bethany the skepticism her face evinced. "Who?"

Athadra's nostrils flared with the force of her snort, and she averted her gaze down to the dusty floor. "Morrigan," she breathed, much more softly than she'd spoken the accusation a few moments before. "She gave me the strength to keep fighting, even when I thought I were lost."

"That sounds familiar," the other woman admitted, but she still didn't relax. "Wait...I've  _heard_  that name before," Bethany breathed, her eyes widening. "That's who Flemeth said was going to kill her! Or...might have already done it…"

Whatever the Commander had been expecting Bethany to say, Flemeth and her death hadn't factored into it in the slightest. The elven Warden's lips parted as she considered what the other woman's words must mean. "You spoke to Flemeth?" She husked, her own skepticism shining through. " When ?"

A bit of animation snuck into Bethany's expression. "She saved us from the darkspawn," the human mage informed Athadra. "Well...Carver, Aveline, Mother, and me. Ceth died before she showed herself, and Wesley...not long after."

Athadra nodded, as though she understood, even if she couldn't grasp the magnitude of the coincidence...if that's truly what it could have been . "So she rescued you and told you that Morrigan was going to kill her?" An old suspicion rose toward the surface of her thoughts as she waited for the other woman's reply.

"Not...like that," Bethany allowed, shaking her head. "I don't think she was going to save us at all, until she heard about where we were headed. When she learnt we were for Kirkwall, she gave us an amulet to give to Keeper Marethari." The Commander cocked a brow when Bethany paused, though the elf held her silence; as unexpected as this news was, it meant that the woman was actually  _talking_ , which was better than the alternative. "It...took us a few years to do it, but when we did, Marethari got Merrill to perform a ritual on Sundermount. That ritual brought Flemeth herself out of the amulet…or part of her, at least." Athadra felt a bolt of lightning course down her spine at the revelation. "Enough to make sure she didn't die, from whatever Morrigan had planned for her ."

It was Athadra's turn to lapse into silence for a couple of minutes, her gaze shifting to the middle-distance, where she no longer saw the room or its other occupant. Rather, the Commander spent many long seconds trying to sort through what it might mean, whether Morrigan had known of her mother's contingency...whether Morrigan had already fallen victim to Flemeth's designs .

"Ath...thadra?" The human ventured, sitting forward from her pillows, unmindful of her nakedness as the bedsheet slipped from her shoulders. "Is everything alright?"

The elf blinked, shaking off her thoughts. "No," she allowed, refocusing her gaze on her friend. "Morrigan's plan for dealing with her mother were to tell me about a threat the old woman posed to Morrigan's life, and let me loose on her," Athadra said. "I killed Flemeth...at least as best I could." Her eyes narrowed, crimson glowing a bit more lividly in them. "And it looks like I'll have to kill her again," she observed, for the risk to Morrigan was unconscionable...and if the worst had already come to pass, or if it had all been a gambit played on Athadra's heart, then the Commander would exact her revenge.

Bethany must have taken the elf's expression and tone personally, for she scooted back on the bed, drawing in a nervous breath. "C-commander," she stammered, "I'm s-sorry...I didn't kn-"

"I know," Athadra affirmed, consciously relaxing her grimace. "I'm not angry at you, Beth," she assured the other woman. "And I ain't your commander anymore." Bethany slowly relaxed, and on a whim, the elven Warden lifted herself off of the chair and began undoing her heavy armour.

The human mage flinched when both halves of the Commander's chest piece fell noisily to the floor. "What are you doing?"

"You don't have any darkspawn or templars hiding under your bed, do you?" When Bethany shook her head slowly, Athadra sank back down into the chair, after turning it the right way around first. Then she worked on her greaves and gauntlets, and after another minute she just wore the blue-and-silver underpadding. " The armour has a bit of magic in it...among other things, it makes me more aggressive, more bloodthirsty. Even the gloves have no coverings for me palms, to make it easier to use blood magic, I expect."

Bethany nodded with muted comprehension, moving to sit closer to the edge of the bed. "Is that why you took it off?" She ventured, her voice a bit stronger than it had been a few minutes before. "Last year, I mean," she clarified. "When Meredith wanted to send us to the Gallows?"

The Commander barked a rough laugh and inclined her head. "In part," she conceded. "If it'd even looked like I cut meself on purpose, I would've had to kill her, and probably your friend, too."

"Aveline?" Bethany guessed, her brows knitting. When Athadra nodded, the mage made a thoughtful sound. "I don't know if she's my friend anymore."

" I'll remember that, the next time she stands between me and something I need to do ," the elven Warden mused, and she couldn't help but smirk at the sudden flash of protectiveness that stole over the other woman's face for the briefest of moments.

She could see another question forming behind Bethany's eyes, and the human mage wasn't long in supplying it. "Why didn't you want to kill the knight-commander?"

Athadra took a breath, her eyes sweeping the room once more, for secret listening-holes or potential passages. Finally she spoke, her voice just inside the other woman's hearing. "I did," she admitted. "Still do...I can't see any path that don't lead to me killing her, some day. But that weren't the day; today ain't, either, and neither is tomorrow."

Whether or not Bethany realised the magnitude of the concession, or the signal of the Commander's trust, she nodded solemnly all the same. The disaffected mask began slipping back over her face. "No matter how many we kill," the woman observed, "it's never enough. Darkspawn or...or…"

"Or Qunari?" Athadra ventured. "Or Castillon's thugs?" She heaved a sigh at the glisten of tears in the human mage's eyes. "You would kill every single one of them to get her back," she pronounced. "Just like I would cut through Flemeth a hundred times to spend another day with her daughter ."

Bethany drew back against her pillows, letting her eyes fall to her blanket-covered knees. "Will it ever stop hurting?" She asked, after a few breaths.

The Commander lowered her head, letting her wild onyx curls shroud her vision. "No," she admitted. "Not until you see her again, or...you die. And maybe not even then." The elven Warden took a steadying breath, and fixed the other woman with a hard stare. "But you can learn to breathe again, Bethany. It weren't all for nothing, even if it feels that way now." Idly, almost unconsciously, she thumbed the pewter ring on her right hand...Athadra had yet to plumb its secrets, to tamper with the threads of power that might still link her to the Wilds-witch, even if only slightly.

"I...I knew what she was," the human mage said, her voice thick with another round of tears. "I should hate her, for what she put me through...what she put the whole city through."

Athadra found herself nodding along with the other mage's self-recriminations. "I feel just the same way, sometimes," she assured Bethany. "But then I remember that Morrigan saved my life, in more than one way, and I love her all the more ."

Bethany sniffled and wiped at her eyes with her covers. "I know she didn't have to come back, but she did it anyway," she said, half to herself. "She tried to make it right...and I can't hate her for that." The woman's shoulders hitched with another muffled sob. "Then...the Arishok wouldn't listen…"

"And now he's dead," Athadra pointed out. "He could've taken his damned book and left in peace, and she might not've run off, but he stood and fought, and you killed him." Then a rogue thought struck her, and she chuckled anew. "You know, Morrigan left and then came back once, too. Though she were gone for a few months, rather than a few hours."

That got Bethany's attention. "Why would she do that?"

The Commander shrugged. "It were right after I killed her mother," she said. "The very night I came back from the deed, half dead." The memory was still an unhappy one, but Athadra had faced much more frightening challenges, so she forged on. "We'd had an...understanding, which she sought to clarify. Then she asked me to disavow my feelings for her, which I couldn't do." She swallowed down the lump that tried to rise in her throat. "So she left."

Athadra could tell that her answer hadn't really settle Bethany's question, but the human mage didn't try to rephrase it. Instead, she put voice to a much more practical query. "How did you survive it?"

The elven Warden gave her friend a scarred smile. "I took up drinking," she admitted. "And I had an...acquaintance...who offered me some distraction from my pain, by letting me vent it on him."

Bethany tilted her head, a hint of a smirk touching her lips. "So you got drunk and fell into someone else's bed?"

"Not exactly," Athadra corrected her. "And not at first. For weeks, I made him bleed and scream, and that soothed my own hurts enough for me to do my duty. But I eventually took him to my bed, when I were ready." The Commander settled back in her chair, letting her eyes wander over to the ruined armour hanging by the door. "When Morrigan came back, I thought I would die...literally. I'd just been given a death sentence by an old Orlesian Warden, who told me and Alistair that one of us three had to die, to take down the Archdemon good and proper ." The revelation drew a gasp of surprise from the recently despondent woman, but Bethany made no other comment, so the elven Warden went on . "Morrigan showed up in the room we'd shared, the one I still sleep in, when I'm home," she informed the other woman. "She promised that we could get around that requirement with a ritual...and she were right. I sunk this sword into the Archdemon's eye," Athadra boasted, patting her right-hand blade. "And I lived to tell about it, the first Grey Warden to do so. I should've been happy, but...she were gone. The night of my triumph is the last night I ever saw her." At that, the elven Warden returned her gaze to the other mage, offering up a bittersweet smile. "So, aye, I know a little bit about what you're dealing with ."

Bethany's response was long in coming, but eventually, her head bobbed a couple of times. "I suppose you do, Athadra," she said, and the elf noticed a little smirk cross the other woman's lips at the use of her proper name. "Do you...think you'll see her again?"

The Commander's fist clenched, until she felt the ring biting into her pinky and middle fingers. "I do," she affirmed. "I can't give up that hope. Even if I take other lovers, even if I've spent years looking. And you shouldn't give up, either." Her brow drew down as she leaned forward. "Isabela is my friend, and I want to find her, too, when she's ready to be found." Athadra stood up, regarding Bethany evenly. "Do you want to find her?"

The mage swallowed, but her eyes didn't waver from the elf's face. "I do," she admitted, her voice thick again. "More than anything."

"Then let's get you out of that bed," Athadra suggested, holding out a hand. "And into the bath. She'll be able to smell us coming from a league out otherwise." The single, broken laugh that rose from Bethany's throat erased much of the pain Athadra had dredged up by sifting through her memories, and when the human mage took her hand, the elf pulled her friend into a fierce hug. Anders' skills bore the challenge, for Bethany didn't cry out, even once .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to buttercup23 for beta-reading this story, and to everyone who's reading along, especially wtgw!


	42. Far From Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the most rotten scoundrels cannot outrun their history, no matter how fleet of foot.

 

The air had taken on a rare chill, even for the season. She stood on the muddy bank of the river Ignacius, watching the fishing boats pull back into the city's modest riverfront docks. Even this was risky; although the Ignacius wasn't large enough for the Armada's ships to navigate, it fed into the wide Minanter, which brought the Armada's sailors from the Amaranthine Ocean to the very heart of Nevarra. Yet the woman had flouted greater risks for years in Kirkwall, and she'd managed to carve something like a life out for herself there, despite having no ship and no crew. Now the ocean was more than two weeks' travel away, and it had been four months since she'd tasted salt on the air. She, who'd spent nearly every day of her life within sight of open water, hadn't even managed to take a proper swim since she'd come to the village .

It was called Monteverde, after the great, green hill that rose up on its northern edge, though it might well have been called Monteroja, for all of the blood that soaked into the streets. Technically part of Nevarra, at least until the  _monsignor_  changed his mind, the town wasn't more than three days' journey to the four-way borderlands that Nevarra shared with Orlais, the Anderfels, and the Tevinter Imperium. As such, royal authority and oversight from the Navarrene capitol was practically nonexistent, which meant that the force of the law was determined by the sharpness of one's own wits and, more often than not, one's blades.

Idly, the woman tongued the inside of her lower lip, which now carried no hint that it had ever held a stud of solid gold. Her rings and studs, choker and medallions had been far more difficult to part with than her name had been . With a shiver, the woman drew her furred cloak tighter around herself, and turned to look out across the village in the last light of evening. The green mountain was peaked in white, and if it got much colder, the snows might even dust on the streets she stalked. She couldn't say she owned them, not like she'd had the run of Lowtown, but she made a decent living. Today she had some unfinished business to conduct, but first, she had to meet with a dwarf at dusk.

The shadows wrapped around the woman like a shroud as she made her way into Monteverde proper, her heavy boots clicking over the stones in the streets. Just as the sun sank below the western horizon, she arrived at the dwarf's market stall. His beard held more pepper than salt, and the braids twitched when he caught sight of her. "Just the crook I was hoping to see," he growled in passable Antivan. "How's things, Sibelle ?"

"That depends on what you've got for me, Federico," she answered in the same tongue, arching a curious brow at him. "Do you have the address?" Casually, Sibelle slipped a hand into the front of her cloak, her fingers tickling over her purse, but never more than an inch away from the shanker she carried with it.

The dwarf's mud-coloured eyes gleamed in the low light of the marketplace. "It wasn't easy, from the description you gave me," he began. "But yeah, I got it. It's yours for thirty silvers."

Sibelle frowned. "We agreed on twenty," she reminded him, her fingertips itching.

Federico scratched his chin. "True," he conceded. "But it was real tough to track him down on such short notice. If the town watch catches wind that I helped you out, it could get real unwelcome for me," the dwarf pointed out.

"Twenty five," the woman settled, tiring of the dance even before it had begun. "Otherwise I'll pay someone else fifty just to piss you off ." When Federico scoffed and grudgingly accepted, Sibelle pulled out her coinpurse and counted the silvers on his stall, though she kept her gloved hand over the pile once it was full. "Now, I believe you have something for me?"

The dwarf's gaze didn't waver from the small mound of coins beneath Sibelle's palm. "Poor sap lives up Serpent Street, just off of the Cathar Way, in a two-room shack. Got green curtains on it, leaned against an old Tevinter building. Can't miss it."

The woman worked through her mental map of the village; she could get to the place in less than half an hour at a walk. Which meant that she could be back well before Federico closed up shop, if his information proved false. " _Adios, me breve amigo_ ," she purred, after a moment's consideration, and then she stalked off to find the unlucky gentleman that Federico had just sold for a handful of silver.

Sibelle found the house easily enough, wedged between the ancient marble baths that hadn't worked in a hundred years and a grain silo that saw traffic at all hours. The porthole window had no glass, but it was covered from the inside with a thick, green sheet that wasn't quite heavy enough to block out the sound of an argument brewing from within. The row cut off abruptly at Sibelle's knock; she counted off a dozen heartbeats before knocking again.

A short, heavyset woman pulled the door open, eyeing the unannounced arrival with suspicion. Her black hair was streaked with grey and her face held the shadow of some long-gone illness, but her icy eyes were keen and haughty, and when she spoke, there were echoes of nobility in her voice. "What do you want?"

"Does a one-armed man live here?" Sibelle ventured in accented Nevarran. "A bit taller than me, with a beard and a bent nose?"

The other woman frowned so deeply that Sibelle feared her lips might twist into a knot, but before she could issue a denial, a might higher voice sounded from right beside her. "Papa has one arm…"

Sibelle's head tilted, her eyes flitting over a young girl who skulked in the older woman's shadow. "Is that right," the caramel-skinned woman mused. "And where is your papa now ?"

The older woman rounded on the girl, presumably her daughter, who shrank back at the rapid-fire Orlesian that Sibelle couldn't quite follow. But the girl looked properly chastised, and soon she disappeared into the shadows of the little hut, and Sibelle was certain this was the right place. "What do you want?" The woman repeated, once her daughter was out of sight.

The easy smile that Sibelle had worn melted into a hard line. "I need to have a chat with the little girl's father," she intoned, taking a subtle step forward.

To her credit, the woman did not shrink back, but her eyes softened. "What did he do?"

"You're better off not knowing," Sibelle admonished, her honey-coloured eyes narrowing. "I promise he'll come back, unless he's even more foolish than I think he is."

The harassed woman came to a decision, then, and she nodded brusquely. "He will be out shortly," she informed her uninvited guest.

Before she'd closed the door behind her, Sibelle melted into the shadows once more. After half a dozen heartbeats there came a raucous chorus from within the shanty, the woman's higher pitch muted by the wood and offset by a lower echo . In another minute, however, the yelling ceased, and then it was only a matter of moments before Sibelle's quarry made his presence known.

His hand was occupied with a burlap sack, and she saw that the right-arm sleeve of his coat was stuffed haphazardly into a pocket, as though that could hide the fact that it was fleshless. As he moved down the lane, Sibelle fell into step beside him, as silkily as a leopard on the prowl. She stole a glance at his face, confirming the kink in his nose and his blue eyes, before he caught sight of her and nearly jumped out of his skin. " _Merde_!" He swore, clutching his sack closer to his chest. "You frightened me," he went on, his Nevarran touched heavily with Orlesian, his feet carrying him a bit more quickly along the stone wall.

Sibelle did not answer, but she didn't let herself fall a step behind him, even when he snarled at her to leave him alone. Just as they reached the other end of the old Tevinter building, Sibelle struck out, tripping the unfortunate man with a sideways kick to his knee. She pushed him into the alleyway as he fell and followed, glancing up and down the street, just in case a watchman picked the wrong moment to check upon the district.

"Shut up," she snarled, stepping over the rotten cabbage that had spilled from the sack the man had dropped.  _Heartbreaker_  was in her hand, though still concealed by her furred cloak. "You don't know who I am," Sibelle breathed, "but you know what I'm after. You can save both of us a lot of bother by giving it to me."

The man was still struggling to right himself, but before he could rise from his hand and knees, Sibelle delivered a swift boot to his side. He coughed and collapsed, blubbering his ignorance. She couldn't see if his eyes held any fear when he looked up at her, but his voice quaked. "I got no id-dea what-" And then he was coughing, after another kick likely cracked his ribs.

"Her name is Arielle," the woman reminded him. "Nice red hair, down past her shoulders, and a solid set of lungs that you seemed to enjoy particularly well...until it came time to pay her what she'd earned." She produced her dagger, twisting the blade until it glinted in the low light. "You broke one of her teeth instead...don't you remember? About a week ago ?"

He was cowering now, leaned in a crouch against the stone, holding his left arm as though it carried a shield. "You're mad, madame," he insisted. "I would never...I have a wife! A child!"

Sibelle inclined her head, a few of her raven locks falling forward into her face. "I saw them," she confirmed. "And I  _heard_  them, too. Especially that wife of yours; it doesn't sound like you've plumbed that well in quite awhile." She offered him a grin she didn't feel. "Normally I'm not one to judge who comes to one of my girls, or care why, as long as they render unto Hessarian . But now you've got my  _attention_." That last word drawled out in a sneer, and she feinted another kick.

The bastard had gotten his wind back, but he was years out of practice fighting, and so when he dodged to his left, he fell right into her trap. Sibelle threw  _Heartbreaker_  directly at his hand, and the blade sank cleanly between the bones, pinning his limb to the mouldering stone wall. His scream was much higher-pitched than his wife's had been, but he somehow mastered the urge to yank his arm back, which would have only brought him further agony. "Please," he whined, tears streaking into his dirty beard. "I don't...have any money. It's why I...couldn't pay."

The businesswoman heaved a sigh. "I'll have to take a thumb, then," she settled.

"What?!" The man's trembling settled, his eyes fixed on her as she drew  _Backstabber_  from its sheath within her boot. "But...I won't be able to work," he screeched. "My daughter will starve!"

"You should've thought of that before you nearly choked one of my girls to death," Sibelle observed, shifting to kneel before the captive hand. The man continued to plead for his hand, for mercy, even as she sawed through the offending digit. The act itself brought her no pleasure, and when it was done, she left the cut flesh with the poor man. His cries of pain and anguish were nothing compared to what she'd wrought on the high seas, but she stole away quickly, before the hollering brought the wrong kind of attention.

Once she'd cleared Serpent Street, Sibelle made her way to one of Monteverde's spring-fed fountains, which children used to fetch water for their mothers to cook with during the day, and murderers used to wash away the blood on their hands after dark. Once her daggers sparkled cleanly and her gloves were free of the one-armed man's lifeblood, the woman ambled through the half-deserted streets, turning down a familiar path. The smell of mud and shit faded as she neared her destination, the great house she'd come to call home. It was called  _Castellus Lavendulum_ , the Lavender House, and it took its name very seriously. The outside of the building crawled with the plant, and every street that led to the establishment was festooned with lavender bushes to each side.

It was a brothel, of course, but it was also a tavern and an inn, which made it an acceptable place for Sibelle to live. Being closer to her  _girls_  didn't hurt, either. She slipped into a side entrance, nodding at the well-armoured dwarf who stood guard against customers accessing the building's private residences. Sibelle herself slept on the fourth floor, above the fray of drink and sex that lent the place so much energy and provided her with a suitable livelihood, but just then she headed to the suite of apartments just above the bar. Another little girl answered when she knocked on a particular door, but Sibelle didn't have to fake civility with this one. "How's your mother doing tonight, Louisa?"

The girl shared a shy smile with the woman that still managed to show a gap where one of her milk teeth had recently fallen out . "Mama's working," she said, and she must have anticipated the grown-up's disapproval, for she quickly went on. "Not all night...just for another half-hour or so. I can take care of myself 'til then."

"You sure about that?" Sibelle cocked a brow at her; in the last couple of months, she'd grown to like the little monster far more than she'd have imagined.

Louisa nodded enthusiastically. "I'm almost all grown," she informed the older woman, idly curling a finger through her straw-coloured hair. "But...you can come in if you want to wait for Mama, Auntie 'Bella."

Sibelle swallowed the lump that rose in her throat, which threatened every time Louisa graced her with the seemingly-innocuous nickname . "I can't stay," she lied, giving the girl an apologetic smile. "Just tell your mother that I took care of the bad man that hurt her, and he won't be coming around anymore. Can you do that?"

The girl nodded once more, looking slightly disappointed, but she didn't press. "I will," she vowed. "Will you make sure nobody ever hurts her again?"

Louisa's earnestness was like a punch to the older woman's gut. "I can't promise that," she said, unable to lie to the girl a second time in so brief an interval. "But as long as she needs me, I'll make sure she always comes back to you."  _And let you move away from this place when you're older_ , she added, mentally.  _If you want to_. "Now you go back inside and behave until your mother gets back." Sibelle might have laughed aloud at the admonition, if the girl hadn't offered her another shy smile.

"I will," Louisa promised. "Sleep sweet, Auntie 'Bella, when it's your bedtime."

Sibelle thoroughly doubted she would, but she had no desire to expose herself to more of the child's curiosity, so she simply nodded. Once the door was firmly closed and bolted, the woman stalked to the stairwell, shaking off the girl's undeserved affection as she neared her own apartments. She could see herself settling into this life-a little thieving, a few hints of violence, and more than her share of liquor-but she couldn't let herself get  _that_  close to anyone...not again. The elf had been a youthful indiscretion, quickly corrected for the benefit of all involved, but things with her last  _attachment_  had ended far too badly for Sibelle to let anyone into her heart again, even an angel as cute and innocent as Louisa .

The room was modest, perhaps more so than Sibelle truly deserved, but she'd never needed more than a decent bed and a solid desk as long as she'd been stranded on dry land. With a sigh, she shrugged out of her heavy coat, hanging it by the door. The only thing she took from the garment was her recently-lightened purse. She might've continued to strip off her gloves and boots, trousers and chemise, but she hadn't been entirely dishonest about having business to deal with...and that business would want the honour of unwrapping her, if Sibelle was any judge. So the businesswoman sauntered over to her desk, procuring a half-full bottle of black rum from the false bottom of the drawer. It was one of the few conceits she allowed herself in this place, aside from her soon-to-arrive guest.

The bottle was nearly empty when a soft knock sounded from Sibelle's door. "It's open," she purred, propping one of her long legs up onto the desktop, her boot nudging the half-full purse, just as that door opened inward. Sibelle's breath caught in her chest when she caught sight of the figure that filled the doorway. She knew that the woman's hair was a bit too curled, her skin a bit too olive-toned, but in this light and this deep in her cups, the thief could almost believe…

The other woman leaned heavily against the closed door, surveying the tiny room she'd seen so often in the last few weeks. "You know," she remarked in the King's Tongue, her voice kissed only slightly with Antivan, "I think I know why you're such a miser when it comes to this place." She fixed Sibelle with a challenging smirk, the kind that would've made the thief's cheeks flush if it hadn't been for the rum.

"Oh, really?" Sibelle challenged, cocking an eyebrow at her guest. These private moments were the only time she let herself slip into the tongue she'd lived in for the past few years; to everyone else, she was an Antivan through and through. But a few of the silvers on her desk were for the other woman's silence, over and above her company, and while Sibelle could hardly say she trusted anyone in this town, she thought they'd come to something of an understanding . "Do you think I spend all of my coin on you, sweet thing?"

The woman's head cocked, a few locks of her hair falling across her face, but she eyed Sibelle through the strands, an amused smirk touching her lips. "Unless you're saving up to buy a carriage out of this place," she ventured. Her name was Elise, though that hardly mattered to the thief, and she didn't move an inch from her perch.

Sibelle shifted in her seat, moving to face Elise more fully. The corners of the room only shimmered slightly, so she knew she hadn't drunk quite enough, but Elise would make amends for that oversight by thoroughly earning Sibelle's silver. "No carriages in my future," the thief admitted with a sigh. "Though I wouldn't mind getting trussed up and ridden down like a brigand." Her eyes wandered downward, drinking in the other woman's figure as thirstily as if she were the last gourdful of water on a ship with no land in sight.

Elise leaned forward, undoubtedly aware of how the pose accentuated her curves, and breathed a hearty chuckle. "I believe we can make the appropriate arrangements," she allowed, before kicking off from the door and slinking to sprawl in Sibelle's lap, her arms wrapping loosely around the other woman's shoulders. "I seem to have forgotten my rope, though," she warned, her breath tickling over Sibelle's lips.

The thief couldn't hold back a shudder at her guest's proximity, the heat of her breath and weight of her legs mixing with the rum to send Sibelle's mind reeling. "I think we can make do," she ventured, before closing the distance between their lips with a sudden lunge. Unlike many of her profession, Elise didn't shy away from kissing, and so Sibelle was rewarded with the rich taste of cherry wine. It wasn't sunshine, but it was close enough.

As one, the two women moved from the narrow chair to the generous bed, and Elise took her pleasure in slowly divesting the thief of her few remaining garments. She left only the small kerchief that Sibelle kept taut around her bicep, one of the few remnants of a life better left forgotten. The next few hours passed in a haze of passion, pleasure and pain blending with cinnamon and cherries, wine and rum, until Sibelle could nearly forget herself in the sensation. At some point, Elise had located three chords of hempen rope; the thief's wrists were tied together and affixed to the headboard, while each ankle was secured to an opposing bedpost. The pose left her utterly vulnerable to Elise's attentions, which were renewed with a nearly-vicious vigour until Sibelle had lost track of time.

Thus it wasn't entirely a surprise when the other woman trailed a line of delicate kisses up Sibelle's abdomen and neck, all the way to her earlobe, and whispered that that she had to go. Lost in the daze of sensation, the thief could hardly complain, and she even enjoyed watching Elise wrestle her way into the tight dress that she'd come into the room wearing. It wasn't until the other woman had nearly reached the door that the thief realised something was amiss. "Hey," she called, tensing her sore muscles. "Come back and untie me ."

Perhaps the rum had addled her worse than she'd thought, but when Elise cast her a long glance over her shoulder, Sibelle could've sworn that she detected a hint of pity in the other woman's gaze. The doubt was dispelled when Elise opened her mouth, however. "Poor, poor Isabela," she breathed .

Ice flooded the thief's stomach, and she yanked hard enough on her restraints to rub her skin raw...but she had cause then to lament her keen eye for beds, for the wood withstood her renewed struggle. " _You bitch_ ," she hissed in Antivan. " _How much did he pay you_?"

" _More than you ever could_ ," came the reply, Elise's tone cutting far deeper than the ropes at Isabela's ankles . It was then that the pirate realised that Elise hadn't swiped the coinpurse from the table...and then she knew the irrevocability of her circumstance. " _For what it's worth_ ," the whore went on, " _it's not personal_."

And then she was gone, leaving Isabela bound to her own bed, flinging curses in half a dozen languages. When the doorway filled once more, however, the pirate froze; the figure that had come in Elise's place did not wear the deep reds and greens of the Felicisima Armada, nor the muted blacks of the Antivan Crows. It was a soldier, armoured in grey and wearing a full copper-faced helmet. Just like they wore in Tevinter.

_Balls_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta-reader, buttercup23, and to everyone who's reading along!


	43. A Not-So-Gentle Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Banquets in Kirkwall sure can feel like murder, sometimes...but that's nothing on the after-parties.

 

Everyone looked a bit uncomfortable, standing around the grand table, most wearing their most ostentatious and expensive clothes. More than one of the honoured guests sent disdainful glances at Varric, Merrill, Carver, and Fenris, but each of them took their honoured places near the dais. Aveline stood to one side of the platform, her dress armour gleaming, as Grand Cleric Elthina droned on monotonously about the strength of the faithful and the providence of the Maker.

Bethany could have vomited; she didn't recall any god stepping in when the Qunari decided to stop sitting on their hands . No, it had taken her and her friends to make up the difference between freedom and slavery, between life and death. She hung back in the shadows of the platform, wearing the armour purpose-built for her station, waiting for her cue; once the priest was done bleating , Meredith would give a few remarks, standing in for the still-unfilled position of viscount. Then, and only then, would the newly-proclaimed Champion be showed to the citizens she'd helped to save, precisely one month before. She wouldn't have bothered coming at all if Athadra hadn't pulled her out of the yawning pit of despair into which she'd fallen...and though she still had dark days more often than not, Bethany couldn't hide in the shadows for much longer.

She was grateful that the Warden-Commander hadn't insisted on coming to the event herself, however, as Elthina beseeched the Maker's continued favour and Meredith moved to replace her at the podium . Doubtless Athadra would have rolled her eyes at the piety on display from the two speakers...if she and Meredith didn't carve their way to one another before the prayers could have even started . Bethany felt slightly disturbed that she even felt the urge to mock the other women's beseeches to Andraste; she'd spent her entire life as a faithful adherent to the Chantry, even as an apostate, at least until she'd become a Grey Warden. Once she'd  _taken the cup_ , as the Fereldan Wardens called it, the stories of her youth began losing their grip day by day, month by month, sojourn by sojourn into the Deep Roads. At first, she'd revelled in the freedom to visit the Redcliffe Chantry any day of the week, unencumbered by the fear of templars, but by the time she left Redcliffe to return to the Free Marches, Bethany had been no more comfortable sitting a sermon than she'd been as a child, though for far different reasons. Taken in tandem with her mother's death and her battles with the adherents of the Qun, it wasn't terribly surprising that the woman's faith lay in ashes, though it still perturbed her, nonetheless .

Such musings took her through the bulk of Meredith's remarks, so Bethany was caught somewhat unawares when the knight-commander intoned, "...And now, citizens, I present to you the Champion of Kirkwall!" The woman's templar armour gleamed in the hall's torchlight as she stepped sideways, swinging her arm to signal Bethany's approach.

A fluttering took hold of her stomach; on some level, she'd much rather have had to duel the Arishok again than face speaking in front of these strangers. Varric stuck his thumbs into his mouth and let off a whistle as she stepped forward, which cut through the enthusiastic applause and caused Bethany to laugh. "Erm...hello," the Champion ventured, once she'd reached the podium. "I suppose I should have prepared something to say," she went on, after a calming breath. "But...I never asked for this-for any of it. You know that I wasn't even born in this city." Somehow the words came, and kept coming; she spoke of the viscount and his son, now both dead, along with her mother. She talked about responding to her duty, trying to maintain peace even as everyone seemed to go mad, and ultimately of her necessary acts. She made no mention of being a mage nor a Grey Warden, too aware of how controversial such an open acknowledgement would be .

When she ran out of things to say, Bethany accepted another round of applause, and bade the assembled guests to sit. She took her place at one end of the table, while Meredith and Elthina dominated the other. Soon enough the banquet proper began, with food and wine and music. Bethany had eaten decently before the event, so her Warden's appetite wasn't as conspicuous as it might have been, but she enjoyed the spread on offer in any case. Not long after, Merrill and Carver made their leave; they'd already left little Paqua in Oriana and Bodahn's care too long, so the Champion could hardly begrudge them their early exit.

Carver's place at her side was almost immediately taken by the most flamboyantly-dressed man in attendance. He had a full, greying beard and a velveteen hat which sported more feathers than some peacocks' tails, and his doublet nearly hurt to look at. He introduced himself as Duke Prosper, and though he spoke the King's Tongue almost flawlessly, his dress and demeanor left little doubt that he was Orlesian. The man was tenacious in conversation, even though he seemed to have nothing important to say; by the end of the meal, Bethany got him to go away by promising to consider a visit to his estate the following spring. The lie would have bothered her if he hadn't been so annoying .

Eventually the hour grew late enough that even the grateful citizens of Kirkwall could retire with dignity, though more than one was too drunk to leave the banquet without assistance. Varric promised to throw Bethany a proper party in the Hanged Man, once they'd made their way back to her estate, but Bethany begged the dwarf not to bother; any celebration in the tavern would remind her of the nameday she'd passed there, and what it had led to. Varric seemed disappointed, but he didn't press the issue, for which the Champion was grateful.

One day inexorably, ineffably led to the next, and the chill autumn passed into a frigid winter. Bethany's presence was required for the Satinalia festival, which gave her an excuse to leave the estate to Carver and Merrill for the celebration. The Champion did her duty, holding a torch to the bonfire with the same gravity she'd felt at her mother's funeral, and by the time she returned to her house, her brother and his family had retired for the night. There were more balls and society functions throughout Firstfall and Haring, and even a few shy Hightown girls that caught her eye, once the weight of her heart had lessened enough to let her fall into their beds . But, at least for a time, some semblance of sanity reigned in the city; that winter, there were no threats that the guards and the templars could not handle, and the Champion had no cause to draw her swords outside of her practice sessions. Athadra remained true to her word, and the elf never once called upon Bethany to venture beneath the ground, so she didn't even have the darkspawn to quicken her blood .

On the twenty-fifth evening of Wintersend, Varric showed up unexpectedly and talked Bethany and Carver into meeting with a human friend of his in the market square. Bethany arched a brow suspiciously when they arrived to find the place deserted. "And, of course, there's no one," she sighed.

Varric harrumphed. "All I know is that it had something to do with you and nobles," he mused, glancing around. "Edge is usually more reliable than this."

The Champion stalked into the centre of the square, Barcus at her heels. His low growl set her teeth on edge. "Is your friend fond of setting up ambushes?"

"It isn't  _always_  an ambush," the dwarf protested, just before a knot of black-clad assassins dropped down from the eaves of some nearby buildings. "Okay," Varric conceded, sighing as he unlimbered his crossbow, "...maybe sometimes it's an ambush ."

Rather than attack, the strange men fixed their daggers and bows upon the Hawkes, and a tall man stepped forward in front of them. He was the only one unhelmed, and when he spoke, his Antivan accent put lie to his fair features. "And here is the Champion of Kirkwall," he cooed. "And you brought your pets!"

Bethany rolled her eyes, not even moving to unsheath her swords. "When this is over," she warned Varric, "I'm killing your friend."

The dwarf sighed. "I think you've been spending too much time with your old boss," he mused, but still shook his head. "It was nice knowing you, Edge," he mumbled at his feet.

The evident leader of the Crow cell didn't take kindly to being so pointedly ignored. "You all die today! We will-" His voice cut off in a gurgling, strangled gasp, courtesy of the dagger that appeared seemingly from nowhere to lodge expertly in a joint of his armour.

As the captain staggered backward, the Champion and her companions followed the path of the dagger back to its source, an elf who perched on the roof of a nearby building. Bethany stood in awe as the woman jumped onto an awning, artfully dodging an assassin's arrow in the process. She landed on a balcony before the archer, planting one of her remaining daggers into his flank and turning him just in time for the Crow to loose an arrow into another assassin's face. Once those two had fallen, the elven woman took out another archer on a nearby rooftop by skillfully throwing another blade. A sword-wielding assassin rushed the elf, but she parried his blow with her bloodied blade, dancing and slashing until a spinning kick drove the Crow off of the ledge. A single Crow remained on her level, a big man wielding a two-handed warhammer, but his weapon made him far too sluggish against the nimble woman.

She dodged his shattering blow by flipping off of the balcony, using her previous victim to break her fall, and she rolled to intercept another Crow who ran forward. Once that assassin was dealt with, the elf intercepted another, and another after that; each were dispatched with a skill and grace that Bethany hadn't seen since Isabela's disappearance . By now the woman was close enough that Bethany could appraise her features-luckily, though the stranger shared the pirate's skill, they resembled one another hardly at all, and so the Champion could appreciate the jaunty swagger of the woman's hips and the snug fit of her armour as the elf brushed passed without feeling more than a twinge of guilt and regret .

The leader of the murder of Crows was still standing, though only just, when the strange woman reached him. She grabbed the hilt of the dagger still planted firmly in his chest. "Kill her," he grunted, jerking his head to unseen assassins. "Kill all of the-"

And then the elf opened his throat, retrieving her captive dagger with a grunt as he fell back. She spun, locking her light jade eyes open Bethany. "Well," she half-gasped, tensing up like a cobra about to strike. "What are you waiting for?"

A heartbeat passed before Bethany closed her mouth, and nearly as one, she and the stranger turned to intercept another pair of assassins. "Who in the Void are you?" The Champion wondered aloud, once the leather of her armour had been properly bloodied for the first time in weeks.

"Talk later," the elf replied in clipped tones. "Kill now!" She took down a shieldbearing warrior by tossing one of her daggers, and then sent another flying as she somersaulted to retrieve the first .

Varric grunted from nearby, sending a volley of crossbow bolts at some archers who sought to surprise them from the shadows. "Good plan," he barked. "I know you've got a thing for elves, Junior, but you mind getting on with the hacking and slashing routine already ?"

Carver bit back whatever caustic reply he might have thought of, and his enormous sword flashed in the periphery of Bethany's vision as she waded into her enemies, her heart ticking faster and her muscles singing with the challenge. Her leather-and-chainmail getup was much lighter than the Warden armour in which she'd first learnt how to hold her swords, but she'd had more than enough time to adjust her fighting style over the winter.

It was almost too easy, after years of fighting darkspawn and her gruelling battles with the Qunari, for the Champion to bring death to the assassins. She hardly even had to call upon her mana until her foes broke and tried to run; then Bethany took to freezing every Crow she could see. Part of her wanted to take advantage of her exposed left arm, to cut deep until her own blood flowed in rivulets, and thereby seek out the heartbeats of any who might remain hidden...but somehow the mage held herself back from that temptation. It was far too dangerous, even in the middle of the night...and, in any case, she didn't answer to Athadra anymore, so Bethany no longer feared reprisal for holding back .

Once the last bird was dead and gone, the Hawkes and Varric paused to catch their breath, but the nameless elf went over to investigate the blond-haired man she'd killed so dramatically. "Sloppy," the woman scoffed. "You'd think the Crows would be better at this...they've been doing it for ages."

Bethany had to blink rather forcefully to keep her eyes from wandering too much as the elf rose to her feet and sauntered closer. She looked around at the bodies littering the market square, instead. "Were these Crows a gift from you?" The Champion mused, risking a glance back at the elf; the human mage hadn't yet sheathed her swords. "If so, that's awfully generous...I've been terribly bored."

The thinly-veiled accusation stymied the other woman, and her lips worked for a moment before she found the proper words. "Oh…I didn't arrange this," she insisted, "but it's not really a coincidence that I'm here." The elf paused a half-dozen paces from the Champion and her friends, her arms spreading in a gesture of peace. "My name is Tallis," she informed them, dipping into a small bow that caught Bethany's attention far more than the mage would've liked to admit. "And I've been looking for you."

That got the Champion's suspicions high enough for her to raise her eyes to Tallis' face. "Looking for me? Why?"

"Looking for the woman who has an invitation to Chateau Haine, to be specific," Tallis clarified as she rose from the bow.

Varric let off a guffaw. "Oh,  _that's_  what Edge was on about," he gruffed. "You remember?" He asked, looking up at the Champion earnestly. "After Junior left the banquet, a few months back, a cheese-nibbler named Duke Prosper came in to fawn all over you. He talked about some hunt."

Bethany's lips tipped into a frown. "I doubt I'd go to such a thing," she mused. She didn't like killing things that had little chance of killing her in return. Her gaze shifted from the dwarf to the elf, as Tallis began stalking toward the steps.

"I was hoping you'd reconsider," she said offhandedly, throwing a glance back at the Champion's party. "The duke is a delightful host...or so I hear."

The growing distance didn't lessen the distraction that Tallis' swaying gate offered to Bethany, and so the Champion busied herself with re-sheathing her bloody blades. "I take it this isn't a social call?"

Tallis turned back to them when she'd neared the gate that would take her out of the city. "I need to relieve him of something he has no right to possess," she ventured, her eyes casting down to the bloodied flagstones. "And...I can't do it alone."

Carver snorted from somewhere to Bethany's left. "So we're just your way into the castle so you can steal something?"

Varric elbowed him in the hip. "Stealing from Orlesians is never  _wrong_ ," he mused. "Or so I've been told."

"Fair enough," the warrior conceded. "But nobody helps us without wanting something. What's the catch?"

The elf bit her lip unselfconsciously, and Bethany found her misgivings settling down. "This isn't how I planned to approach you," Tallis insisted, speaking directly to the Champion. "I was picturing an introduction with...less blood."

"It was an interesting entrance," Bethany commented, unable to help herself. "You've got some fine moves."

Tallis blinked in surprise, before her lips curved into a smirk. "I do, don't I?" Distractedly, the elf smeared some assassins' blood from the base of her jaw.

If she didn't know any better, the Champion could have sworn that Tallis was preening . "I imagine if we do this," she heard herself say, "it would be together...yes?"

For some reason, the flash in the elf's eyes set Bethany's heart to pounding more quickly than murdering a group of Crows had done. "That's the idea," Tallis drawled, her brow arching. "Or did you have something else in mind?"

"Oh, gr-ow!" Carver staggered backward, grabbing his shin and hissing. Varric just shrugged and chuckled to himself .

Bethany rolled her eyes, resisting the sudden urge to freeze her own brother, which hadn't been so strong since they were teenagers. "I...just think we should get to know one another," she ventured, swallowing her uncertainty with a smirk, which deepened when Tallis voiced her approval of the notion. "So tell me," the Champion went on, "what is it exactly that you want to steal?"

A cloud moved over Tallis' face. "A...jewel," she admitted, taking a few steps closer to her would-be accomplices. "The duke thinks it's valuable, and it is...just not in the way he believes." The elf turned just before she came within striking distance, but Bethany was too enthralled with the way the torchlight played in her deep crimson hair to read suspicion into the gesture. "What's more, he shouldn't have it in the first place," she insisted as she moved back to her starting position. " _He who wishes to walk on water must first learn to swim_. " That last phrase was obviously a quotation, but the Champion had no idea about its source. Her brows knitted as she considered the woman's words, but before Bethany could formulate a reply, Tallis forged on. "Meet me here at dawn tomorrow; that'll give us plenty of time to get to Chateau Haine for the hunt at the end of the month."

Bethany's brow arched at the elf's evident presumption, but she couldn't say that she wasn't intrigued by the idea. "I don't even know where Chateau Haine is," she pointed out. "And it'll take us more than four or five days to get to Orlais."

"It's in the Free Marches," Tallis informed her. "In the mountains, where the duke can get away from the imperial court without worrying about oversight from the Free Cities. I know the way," she insisted, "and I'll tell you everything en route." Then she fixed the Champion with a challenging smirk. "If nothing else, you can enjoy some fine wine and fancy company," she let on. "But," the elf breathed as she turned toward the stairs, "I hope you want more than that."

Bethany wasn't entirely sure she hadn't imagined the subtle sway in Tallis' hips as she began descending the stairs out of the market, but the Champion shook her head and looked to her companions. "Should we trust her?"

Varric cackled. "Of course not!" He rubbed his gloved fingers over his stubble. "But seeing some rich assholes in fancy masks making asses of themselves might be entertaining. Bianca's game for a little hunting."

"You can leave me out of it," Carver pronounced, limping pointedly as he fell into step beside them. "I don't trust Orana and Bodahn for more than a few hours. Merrill might've wanted to go, though, if Paqua were a bit older."

Sometimes, the Champion couldn't believe how devoted her brother was to his family...but he'd always been that way, she reflected . "Alright," Bethany conceded, as they neared a particular cross-street. "You give my niece a big, sloppy kiss for me."

The warrior stopped when she did. "I will," he vowed; they'd never spoken of it, but Bethany had hardly touched the child, for fear of spreading the corruption in her blood . "Will I see you again before you two leave?"

"Not me," Varric offered, "unless you come to see us off. Bianca and I have a long night of gambling to catch up on before we get a few hours' shut-eye." He looked over to the Champion. "Should I see if Blondie or Elf is interested in tagging along?"

Bethany considered for a moment, but then shook her head. "Anders should stay close, and I don't want to trouble Fenris on such short notice."

The dwarf nodded. "Going to see the other Champion, then?"

She breathed a laugh, realising that he must have noticed the lane that had given her pause. "After I hunt down Edge," she teased with a wink. "I think Athadra might appreciate a trip into the mountains...hopefully without having to slaughter a whole village, this time ." She gave her brother and Varric each a nod, and bade them goodnight, before turning down the lane that would take her to the small Grey Warden barracks at the edge of Hightown .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to my wonderful beta-reader, buttercup23! And to everyone who's following along with this story!


	44. Hearts Asunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Commander of the Grey follows the Champion of Kirkwall to Chateau Haine, though the elf has her own purposes for the trip.

 

The Warden had to fight back a frustrated growl as she watched Bethany pick apart the enormous wyvern that they'd spent much of the afternoon tracking; the beast, reckoned to be cousin to dragons, had four limbs and a long neck, which flared out into spiny flaps when it was about to spit its poison. The human mage had ample help from the acrobatic elf and Varric, though Barcus had been left behind with Merrill and Carver. As much as it galled her, Athadra forced herself to hold back from the fighting. She hadn't even given Tallis her true name when they'd met, a few mornings before-she couldn't risk anyone in Duke Prosper's household or entourage hearing it, for the same reason she had to actively disengage her mana and keep herself out of mortal peril, against all of the instincts she'd developed for nearly half a decade. It was the same reason that she wore her ring in a thong about her neck, reasonably certain that the enchantments in the metal would lay dormant without a finger to trigger them...for, normally, the ring would let a certain mage know the wearer's location whenever their danger seemed great enough.

And, as far as Leliana had been able to discern, Duke Prosper employed a hedge-witch who fit that mage's description exceedingly well . Athadra had vowed to follow her to the other side of Thedas if need be, but she was under no illusions that her advance would be welcomed, at least at first. Thus the subterfuge was necessary, at least until the Warden's curiosity had been settled. The ring rested against her sternum, as warm as always, covered only by a high-collared tunic. Athadra also wore simple trousers and boots, and carried only her daggers at her hips, though she had at least drawn them when the wyvern had leapt into the clearing.

Once the beast lay still, Bethany and Tallis caught their breath, while Varric scrounged around to recover as many bolts as he could. The human mage limped closer. "Are you alright, Athenril ?" Turned away from the mundane elf, Bethany's eyes registered her concern; she'd played along with Athadra's ruse without question, but even she didn't know the Warden's true purpose, here.

"I'm fine," Athadra allowed. She could feel Tallis' skeptical gaze skirting about-doubtless the other elf wondered why Bethany had bothered inviting her, since the Champion of Kirkwall had a great many friends of certain skill and renown .

Before the mundane elf could put voice to any concerns, or at least snark over Athadra's evident lack of fighting prowess, the party was interrupted by a self-aggrandising Orlesian nobleman who'd also been invited to the hunt. Evidently he was under the impression that there was only one wyvern on the whole gods-damned mountain, and Bethany had apparently committed a personal slight in felling it before he'd gotten the chance. Not even Duke Prosper's personal intervention could satisfy the man's thirst for conflict, and so he died, along with most of his masked entourage. Duke Prosper called it justice, though all could see by the gleam in his eyes that he thought it as much sport as hunting down the poison-spitting creatures that nested in the mountains.

Athadra was glad for the simple lacquer mask that covered her face, for not only did it hide the scar that Jarvia had given her so many years before, but it also concealed a great measure of the contempt she felt for their bearded host. Tallis and Varric sported masks as well, though Bethany didn't, having been declared exempt by the duke himself owing to her rank as a Champion. As the host and the highest-ranking Orlesian for over a hundred leagues, Prosper's own cheeks were bared as well, though instead of the fancy clothes and hat that he'd displayed at Bethany's banquet, the man wore an impressive suit of armour and a sleek, spiked helmet, similar to Andish designs that the Warden had encountered on her long trip to Weisshaupt.

While theirs wasn't the only party that had killed a wyvern this day, Duke Prosper declared their kill the most impressive, and he called an end to the hunt before any more of his colleagues lost their heads to jealousy. Thus Bethany, Tallis, Varric, and Athadra traipsed back through the woods while Duke Prosper's servants set about harvesting the wyvern's head and as much of its venom as they could salvage, which would be turned into a potent drink. The party followed the routine that Tallis had advised them on during their journey from Kirkwall; when they made it back to the modest covered wagon they'd used to carry supplies, the companions took it in turns to change into clothing more befitting an Orlesian social affair. The Warden went last, trusting Bethany and Varric to keep the other elf from peeking into the tent and seeing the panoply of scars carved into the Warden's flesh. Much like Tallis herself, Athadra wore silk trousers with a chemise and flowing blouse that couldn't quite hide the first inch of the scar that crossed her sternum, but where the mundane elf's clothes were teal and sea-toned, the Warden had chosen black and crimson. She was quite sure that they both concealed daggers about themselves, however. Athadra worked her long hair until it curled into thick ringlets, which would hopefully conceal the ruin of her right ear and much of the burn on the right side of her neck and shoulder .

Tallis gave the elven mage what must have been an appraising look, though her white-and-blue mask made it difficult to tell what she thought of the transformation. "Are we all ready to go?"

Bethany's curiosity was much more pointed; she'd only ever seen Athadra in armour, or in various states of undress from it. "You look very nice, Ath-enril." The slip was miniscule, hardly worth noticing, but Athadra couldn't help frowning; it wouldn't do to get so close only to have her disguise ruined. If the other elf noticed it, she gave no sign, but that did little to reassure Athadra.

"Thank you," the Warden forced herself to say, and she made a show of looking the Champion up and down. Bethany wore a fitted outfit with leather buckles and straps designed to mimic her ceremonial armour, though this get-up showed far too much skin for anyone to mistake it as the genuine article. "And you don't clean up too badly yourself, Champion." There was something indulgent in her smile as she watched Bethany's nervous acceptance of the honour, but neither woman made mention of the inverted dynamics that Athadra's ruse had necessitated . "Now, do we all remember the plan?"

Varric crossed his arms; of them all, he looked the most unchanged, his leather duster just a bit fancier than usual and his armoured greaves and girdle concealed beneath thick fabric. The only real difference was his notable lack of crossbow, which didn't seem to sit well with him. "You and me get to mingling with the nug-humpers while Shivs and Hawke here go looking for a way in."

Athadra nodded, but before she could voice her approval, Tallis spoke up. "...Shivs?"

"Don't mind him," Bethany sighed. "He's got a habit of nicknaming people...you should've heard what he used to call me."

The Warden gave the dwarf a warning look, as though daring him to think up something for her. It must have shone through her mask, because he kept his mouth shut for once . "Shall we get going before they start the party without us?" The suggestive tone felt queer on her tongue, but she didn't want the other elf to get too suspicious, and she couldn't well bark orders to the Champion of Kirkwall in any case .

Bethany proclaimed her agreement, and together they made their way up to the castle. Much like when they'd first arrived, the main portcullis was closed, but a small side door admitted guests one at a time into the courtyard. The interior of the chateau was strictly off-limits to guests, but for their own reasons, Athadra and Bethany both needed to gain entrance. The courtyard was already half-filled with prominent figures from the Free Marches and Orlais, along with finely-dressed elven servants, whose station didn't merit masks. Duke Prosper noticed the Champion's entrance and drew attention to it with a short address that the Warden paid little attention to, her blood-coloured eyes scanning over the courtyard for a hint of orange hair.

She spotted it soon after Prosper had finished speaking, and with hardly a backward glance, Athadra stalked away through the crowd. Her quarry stood in a corner, laughing and talking in Orlesian with a grey-haired man, looking for all the world as though he enthralled her completely. Of course, given the woman's mask, the Warden couldn't be entirely certain that the red-haired woman really was Leliana...but when she caught sight of the interloper, the woman turned abruptly. " _Bonjour, madame. Avons-nous déjà rencontrées_?"

That was the precise phrase which confirmed the human woman's identity. " _Non, tristement,_ " the elf replied, beginning her own coded reply. " _Je m'appelle Athenril, et vous_?"

Before Leliana could continue the game, her companion let out a snort and said something harsh about foreign knife-ears butchering his beautiful language, putting lie to the hope that Athadra's mask would save her from undue scorn ; without her swords and armour, she was just another elf, which rendered her a slave or a criminal in nearly everyone's eyes. Before she could react in anger, though, Leliana skillfully defused the man's temper by suggesting he go get her some more champagne. He still grumbled as he walked stiffly away, but as soon as he was out of sight, Athadra and Leliana moved to a more private alcove.

" _The duke speaks highly of your friend_ ," the human whispered, still in Orlesian to keep from rousing suspicion. " _I think I should like to meet her_."

The Warden inclined her head. " _That may be arranged, soon,_ " she allowed. " _Did the duke mention any of her companions_?"

Leliana's mask swept from side to side. " _None that I have heard_ ," she insisted.

" _Good_ ," Athadra replied, breathing just a bit easier. " _Do you have a way in_?"

The bard's lips curled into a smug grin. " _Indeed_ ," she confirmed, subtly patting her hip. " _There is still a key floating amongst the guards, but we might save your friends some trouble by entering together_."

The Warden hesitated, honestly tempted by the offer for a moment, but she had to dismiss it. She did not owe it to Bethany to see that Tallis' designs came to fruition, when Athadra's own were so close at hand . " _They can find their own way_ ," she decided. " _Shall we go_?"

" _Two can pass more easily than four_ ," the bard agreed, and she guided the Warden across the courtyard surreptitiously, until they came across an outbuilding along the exterior wall. To all appearances, it was a simple waiting room for guards on patrol to take refuge in between rounds, but Athadra had spent too much time in castles to believe that any room was as simple as it appeared. And indeed, Leliana directed the elf to muscle open a heavy bookshelf which concealed a low door, and the bard used her key to see them through it.

The bookshelf seemed to right itself behind them, if the dull echo that sounded through the door was any indication, and the darkness in the narrow tunnel was too much even for Athadra's eyes to breach. She could tell by Leliana's breathing that the human was slightly perturbed by the blindness, but the Warden nearly felt at home scuttling through the black. After what seemed like an hour of shuffling through twisting turns and gentle inclines, the bard whispered for them to halt. The dank tunnel continued on for an indeterminate distance, but Leliana had found another doorway. This one hid behind a thick tapestry that let in very little torchlight from the adjacent hall, and both women hesitated behind the cloth, their ears straining for sign of anyone on the other side.

"I believe it is clear," Leliana whispered in her accented King's Tongue . "If we take off our masks, we might be able to pass for servants, rather than guests."

Athadra arched her brow, though she realised the gesture was hidden by her mask and the darkness besides, but she didn't voice her skepticism. Instead she pulled off the lacquered wood and cast it down the passageway. "Let's go," she pronounced, a hint of authority returning to her gruff voice.

Luckily the corridor was well and truly deserted, and what few torches guttered along the walls made the place seem positively sunny to their light-starved eyes. Even so, as one they moved into the shadows offered by a recessed row of pillars, just before a pair of guards appeared at the corridor's far mouth for a routine patrol. "Can you sense anything?" Leliana breathed from the corner of her mouth.

In response, the Warden closed her eyes and cleared her mind; her affinity for spirit magic gave her a heightened sensitivity to magic, over and above other mages', but it was difficult to really let her mind wander without unleashing her own energy. As the patrol disappeared up the other side of the hall, Athadra was about to give up, when she picked up on a faint aura above them, to the left. "I think I've got something," she breathed, though the tenuous thread was broken when she opened her eyes. "That way."

The elf took the lead, sprinting down the corridor from column to column in the direction the guards had come. No more guards passed by the time they reached the end, and there was only a single sentry guarding the bottom of a stone stairway. Leliana positively melted into the shadows and concussed the man with an expert blow; Athadra would have slit his throat for good measure, but she wasn't sure how long it would take to fulfill her goal, and so she rushed up the stairs behind the Orlesian woman.

They flitted from alcove to alcove, dodging the occasional guard, with Athadra pausing to feel out the signature of mana that grew a hair stronger with every step. By now she was almost certain she recognised it, and that hope sent her heart to thudding away in her chest, but Leliana kept her from becoming too reckless. One corridor led to another, and more than once they were nearly caught by a wary sentry, but finally the pair spied a smaller hallway that split off from their own. Athadra watched for nearly half an hour, during which time two separate patrolmen passed the opening by as though it weren't there.

Leliana finally spoke up. "Why are we staring at the wall ?"

That, coupled with the familiar brush of magic from nearby, convinced the Warden that her quarry was close at hand. "It's a passage," she hissed through her teeth. "Looks like it were spelled to fool mundane eyes." Before Leliana could inquire further, Athadra sprinted out of their hiding-place, crossing the floor in great bounds until she'd entered the concealed passageway.

The bard was not long in following. "Maker's breath," she exclaimed. "I thought I was-"

"Quiet," Athadra hissed, and her light boots scraped audibly over the stone until she came to a set of wooden double doors. With a nervous sigh, she let go of her own magic, which surged in her nerves after being pent-up deep within her for much of the day. "Do not be alarmed," she breathed to herself, almost a prayer, before she pulled hard on the iron rings that served as handles. Against all reason, the doors creaked outward at her touch, and Athadra's breath caught in her throat when she spied the back of a dark-haired woman in fine, fur-trimmed robes. "Morrigan," the Warden managed, though her feet remained glued to the floor as Leliana came to stand beside her.

The woman at the far end of the room did not move; she appeared bent over a stone basin, gazing into its depths. "So, 'tis truly you," came the voice that had haunted Athadra's memories for nearly four years. "I knew you could not but seek me out eventually."

"Aye," the elf conceded, finding her voice once more. "But is it really you?"

That got the other mage's attention, judging by the way her back stiffened. "And what gives you cause to doubt, Athadra?"

The Warden hesitated, reconciling the brush of mana that the other woman gave off with her memories of Morrigan and Flemeth. It felt much more like the former than the latter, but even her keen senses were insufficient to bridge the span of time with any certainty. "You know well what reasons I might have," she insisted, not daring a glance at her Orlesian companion.

"Ahh," the mage hummed, finally deigning to face her accusers. "All that I can give are my assurances; 'tis me you see before you, truly. Now you must give me your reasons for disrupting my peace." Her eyes were still painted in evenshade, Athadra noted, and her raven hair fell at odd angles and varying lengths, but she could no longer truly be called a Wilds-witch anymore. The thick gown she wore could have been mistaken for a mundane dress, leagues above the rags that had been her customary attire during the Blight, and her chest held a brocade festooned with gold and gems .

It was all Athadra could do to keep from marching up to her then and there, but somehow she found the resolve to stand her ground. "Leliana has something of a proposition for you," she admitted, finally chancing to look at the red-haired woman. "I've tried to warn her off of it, but it were the only way she'd help me find you ."

Morrigan looked less than pleased, though hardly surprised. "Enter, then," she commanded. "If I do not mislike your words overmuch, you might well live to exit ."

The bluff served to refocus the Warden's attention, and part of her couldn't help but rise to the implicit challenge. "I daresay you will mislike them, but you will not harm her." Even so, Athadra stepped into the room alongside Leliana, and they pulled the doors firmly closed behind them. Seemingly of its own accord, a thick beam slid across the metal hooks in the wood, securing them against all but the most determined intrusion.

Morrigan breathed not a word, standing with her arms crossed, and so Leliana finally spoke up. "I deduced what must have happened that night, in the last hours of Guardian," she allowed. "I know you lay with Alistair and that with him you made a child."

The mage's ochred eyes narrowed, and Athadra shook her head subtly, trying to ward off suspicion that she'd volunteered the information. "I see," she finally said. "And you have come to remove a potential challenge to the idiot's misrule?" The woman rolled her eyes. "You may tell your fool of a king that he needn't worry about any bastards showing up unexpectedly."

Athadra might have laughed; if she'd been amongst Alistair's advisors, that would have been her advice on the issue . "She wants something of the opposite, in fact," the Warden informed the other mage. "The throne is filled, but the royal nursery lay empty, which is making a few nobles awfully anxious."

Leliana cleared her throat. "I have come to offer your child a royal upbringing, and you a place of peace and safety as its mother. If, in time, the king has not produced produced further issue, the child you share shall be acknowledged and named heir to the Kingdom of Ferelden."

A subtle storm passed over Morrigan's features, a mixture of incredulity and surprise, though Athadra detected a hint of temptation as well. "She ain't going to steal your child away from you," the Warden vowed, "even if she thought she could. You could be a court mage in Denerim, as free as you are in this place."

"I highly doubt that," Morrigan drawled, her eyes flitting from the elf to the human. "I have considered your proposal, and my reply is no," she said in clipped tones.

"But-" Leliana took a single step forward, looking to argue her point, but she jerked to a stop as though held by invisible ropes.

Morrigan's green-gold eyes flashed, and for a heartbeat, Athadra fancied she could see slits in them. "You will leave this place, Leliana," the mage whispered. "And if I ever see you again, even in passing, I shall squeeze the marrow from your bones where you stand. Do you comprehend? "

Athadra slowly crossed her arms, putting her fingers within reach of the concealed daggers up her sleeves, but the moment that Leliana nodded, the magical restraints disappeared. The beam slipped sideways and the doors behind them opened with a slight buffet of air. "We will go," Leliana promised, though the defeat was obvious in her face. It had been a small hope, and the future must weigh heavily upon the bard .

The Warden didn't move, even as Leliana shuffled past the doors. "You should quit the castle as well, Athadra," the human mage advised. "You will find nothing of welcome here."

The elf's throat ran dry, and her arms fell to her sides, but she didn't retreat an inch. "You know why I came," she husked. "And it's got nothing to do with the kid. Now, you can try to get me to leave if you want, but I don't think you'll like the result."

With an annoyed huff, Morrigan made a subtle gesture with her hands, and the thick double doors shut and barred themselves once more. "I would not swagger so, were I you," she admonished the Warden, even as her lips twitched. "Though I suppose pride has ever been your weakness ." She turned, then, to look into the stone basin again.

Athadra took it as a gesture of trust, rather than scorn, and she found herself ambling more deeply into the well-furnished room. "Flemeth has risen again," she announced in a low voice, cutting through the earlier innuendo. "And I'm not sure if I can believe that she's not in this room."

"You may believe what you wish," Morrigan murmured, and as the Warden neared, she saw that the stone bowl contained a shimmering mist. "I warned you when you set out that you might not truly slay Mother, and I have spent the intervening years studying the magics covered in her grimoires, amongst other sources. ' Tis one reason I cannot go back to Ferelden; the nearer I am to the heart of her domain, the greater the risk ."

The Warden's eyes narrowed; she thought she could see images taking shape in the mist, but they remained wreathed in fog, indiscernible. "I suppose it doesn't matter," she sighed. "But...I were worried about you," the elf admitted.

The other mage fixed her with a cutting look. " You have allowed your infatuation much too free a reign over your mind ," she snapped. "You should not be here," Morrigan insisted. "It brings risks to the both of us that you cannot imagine."

Athadra straightened, her fingernails digging into her palms as a sudden anger flared up from deep within her. "Aye? That I might be able to find some peace, for once?"

Morrigan turned to face her more fully, but did not shrink back at the elf's low tone, as so many others might have done. "You prove your folly even in your denials," she exclaimed, a hint of colour crossing her cheeks. "I begged you to release me, to release yourself from this anguish you insist on experiencing. Yet you cannot let it go, can you?" With a disgusted snort, the mage's hand shot out, her fingers clasping the thong that the Warden wore about her neck. Athadra felt the heated pewter slip over her scarred flesh, the sensation stealing her breath as Morrigan's fingers closed over the well-worn wring. "I thought so," the human mage hissed. "Have you any idea how often this ring has woken me of a night? How many times I've sensed you on the brink of death, and felt the weight of the miles between us?"

Without conscious thought, Athadra's right hand clapped around Morrigan's fingers, until the ring was clasped between their palms. Her flesh tingled with the thrill of contact too long absent and she sucked in a shaking breath. With a sudden jerk, the Warden tore through the leather tie that bound the metal to her. "Take it, then," she offered, blinking away the sheen of tears that threatened. "But you can't tell yourself I never loved you, Morrigan, because I did." With infinite effort, the Warden loosened the grip of her fingers. "I do."

A heartbeat before Athadra could pull her hand away, Morrigan's fingers twitched, and the elf found herself being pulled forward. Their lips met in a haphazard kiss, as fumbling and awkward as their first had been, way back in Orzammar all those years ago. Unlike then, Athadra couldn't mistake the subtle tinge of brimstone on the other woman's tongue for the ambiance of the volcanic city, but she couldn't care. In that moment, the howling emptiness that had clawed at the Warden's ribs was filled with heat and light, and she got a glimpse of what her life might have been like, were the world as just and noble as in the bards' songs . But the moment passed, and when Morrigan pulled away from their heated embrace, Athadra's knees nearly went out from under her.

Her heart felt like it would burst in her chest when the other woman pried the ring from her grasp, but before Athadra could give breath to the wail in her lungs, Morrigan was snatching up her left hand. "'Twas this finger where first you donned it," the taller woman breathed, slipping the pewter circlet onto her third finger. "And here is where it should remain."

The Warden's fingers laced through the other woman's, and Morrigan's heat spread through her palm to tingle up her forearm. "Will it keep troubling you, of a night?"

Morrigan bit her lip, her grip matching the elf's. "It will," she affirmed, "until one day it shall twist into my heart like a spear." Her voice thickened and she swallowed with difficulty. "And from that day on, I shall mourn ." She looked back toward the basin and then, reluctantly, drew her hand back. "Now you must leave, as must I. If you truly love me, you will go."

Athadra's cheeks tickled with silent tears, but she sensed an urgency and regret in the other woman's tone that overcame her own doubts. "I do," she reaffirmed with a strangled growl. "Do you?"

The mage blinked, as if in surprise, and her lips worked wordlessly for a few heartbeats. "You know how I feel about you, Athadra," she sighed. "But that does not matter, now...our time is longsince ended."

"It matters to me," Athadra insisted. "I love you, Morrigan...and I would hear you tell me the words." Her blood-coloured eyes shone in the room's low candlelight.  _Please_.

Morrigan's nostrils flared as she sniffed, crossing her arms defensively and looking away. "If I do, will you promise never to seek me out again? Never to guide any foolish meddlers to whatever sanctum I obtain?"

The Warden took a long, slow breath, and had let nearly all of it out before her throat constricted. "Aye," she rasped, refusing to look away. "I so swear." No matter how often she blinked, the elf couldn't keep the tears from coming.

The human mage held the tip of her tongue between her teeth in that way she had, whenever she considered something deeply, and the heartbeats stretched out before her lips parted. "I love you, Athadra," she admitted at long last, the very first time she'd ever spoken those words within the elf's hearing, and quite likely the last . "Now, I beg you go. Your friends will soon have need of you." Just before she turned away, Athadra fancied she saw a glimmer of tears on Morrigan's face, and her blood sang with the woman's admission too much to register shock at her further statement, even as she left the woman for what could well be the final time, without even saying goodbye .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta-reader, buttercup23, as always.


	45. Anaan Esaam Qun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany gets to spend a night in the gaol with the elusive elf, Tallis, and they make a rather daring escape when the rest of their companions come to their rescue.

 

The iron grate of their cell slammed down with a creaky thud; so confident were the gaolers that none remained to stand guard over the two captives. Which was foolish of them in the extreme...unless the duke was even more cunning than he'd shown himself to be thus far.

But the elf had bigger problems, now that her secret was out to the Champion. Her stomach knotted as she sat down against the wall, and the other woman took to pacing like a caged tiger.  _Vashedan_. "I have a question," Tallis ventured, after a few minutes of silence. The Champion stopped short and threw her a blank stare which did little to settle the elf's nerves. "When the duke told you...what I was, you said you didn't care. Was that true?"

The human made her way to the cell's one bench and sat facing her. "I would've said he couldn't hope to compare against your awesomeness," she allowed with a faint smile. "But that might have been too petty."

Tallis blinked in surprise, unable to help an amused giggle, but her noisy mind intruded as it always did and took her happiness away . "I  _am_ sorry," the elf insisted, shifting to get more comfortable on the floor. "This didn't work out at all like I'd planned." Her gaze shifted to the iron bars. "Obviously," she muttered, under her breath.

The Champion leaned forward, gaining prominence in the periphery of Tallis' vision. "What was your plan, anyway?"

The elf grimaced. "I'm looking for a man named Salit. He is...or  _was_...a member of the  _Ben-Hassrath_ -the 'Heart of the Many'. I was told he was here to sell secrets to the Orlesians." She glanced at her companion to gauge her reaction. "And I came here to stop him."

The Champion shifted, bringing one leg up onto the bench, seemingly oblivious to how that widened the split in her gown to show off her leg from the mid-thigh downward. The elf blinked and refocused on the other woman's face as she spoke. "So you're trying to stop this Salit from betraying your people?"

Tallis gave up on getting comfortable against the cold stone, so she regained her feet with a sigh. "You probably won't believe me," she began, shaking her head. "But this isn't a political mission. It's...personal."

The human woman arched a brow. "What do you mean?" She moved to stand as well, apparently unable to let the elf feel tall for more than a few seconds.

"Salit was my  _Besrathari_ ," Tallis admitted, turning away from her companion. "He...recruited me into the  _Ben-Hassrath_ , trained me, convinced me that I could make a difference." She sought refuge in the cell's opposite corner...it wasn't very large, but the space helped to clear her mind, even as she faced the Champion once more. "And now he's going to do something that will hurt thousands of innocent people."

The Champion's brow drew down. "You mean he'll hurt other Qunari?" As though that made all the difference.

Annoyance flashed behind the elf's heart. "Not every Qunari is a soldier, you know," she pointed out sharply. "There are tens of thousands of farmers, artisans, craftsmen…"

The other woman tilted her head. "Mages?" She ventured, crossing her arms, and now Tallis was almost positive she knew the effect the motion must have on her dress. "I understand," the Champion went on. "It may sound funny, since I've probably killed more Qunari than anyone outside of Tevinter in two hundred years...but I didn't want that to happen."

Tallis swallowed back her surprise at the frank admission, feeling some hope that her failure wasn't absolute. "You had no choice," she affirmed. "Arishok had a duty to fulfill, and when he ran out of peaceful options, he saw no alternative. You could not stand by while your home was burnt to the ground."

The Champion's brow arched skeptically. "So I don't have to worry about you seeking revenge?" Her tone was light, despite the suspicion her words imparted, and her lips were quirked into an amused smirk.

The elf shook her head. "The Qunari do not hold grudges, and we have no reason to hold your actions against you . Arishok called you  _Basalit-an_. He would have been proud to fall by your hand." S he could see that the Champion didn't realise just how much the Arishok had honoured her, but she couldn't let herself get led astray. "Salit has a choice, however. He has no compelling reason to betray his people."  _To betray me_.

The  _saarebas_  looked slightly appalled at Tallis' proclamation about the Arishok, but she didn't follow up on it. "How exactly is this man going to sell out the Qunari?"

"He has a list of names," Tallis allowed. "Names of hundreds of Qunari agents spread throughout Thedas...men and women, elves and dwarves. Some of them have even left the Qun behind. But that won't matter if the templars in the White Spire get their hands on the list." She kicked off of the wall and gripped the dirty iron, looking out into the gloomy hallway. "You saw first-hand how far the Chantry will go to defend its doctrine from heretics. Not even a political leader's family is safe from murder for straying. Can you imagine what will happen to those people? To their friends and family, their business partners? Their children?" The metal bit into her hands and she looked over her shoulder to the other woman. "I have to stop him."

It was the Champion's turn to lean against the wall, her arms still crossed loosely in front of her. "Did you truly seek me out just because I had an invitation?"

The elf retreated from the grate, wiping flakes of rust from her palms. "You were the only one what wasn't a personal friend or relative of Duke Prosper," she insisted. "Plus, you're Fereldan, with no reason to love Orlais...and you are  _Basalit-an_ ," Tallis reiterated. "I couldn't have hoped for a better way in."

A moment passed during which Tallis saw the Champion come to a decision; the woman relaxed, her smile growing more genuine, and the elf caught her brown eyes wandering in a not-entirely-unwelcome fashion once more. "I suppose if you've no qualms seeking my help after what I did in Kirkwall, I'll be happy to assist."

Tallis had been marshalling more arguments, but the Champion's sudden acquiescence set her somewhat adrift. Her lips parted as she considered. "Alright," the elf replied. "The first order of business is getting out of here before His Grace decides we would taste good in the soup," she pointed out, turning back to the bars. "Or...whatever he has planned. Any bright ideas?"

She looked back at her companion in time to see the Champion's eyes close, her brows knitting. "Atha-enril is coming," she exclaimed. "She's not more than two hundred yards away."

The elf didn't bother to hide her suspicion when the  _saarebas_ ' gaze returned to her. " Her name isn't really  _Athenril_ , is it? That's the third time you've almost let it slip since we left Kirkwall ."

The other woman had the sense to look sheepish. "No," she admitted. "But it won't be long until you can ask her yourself." Before Tallis could ask how she could be so sure that the scar-faced elf was on the way to rescue them, the Champion pressed ahead. "Is your name really  _Tallis_?"

Tallis should've expected that, but it still caught her off her guard. "Sort of," she let on, taking her own turn to look at her feet. "You probably know that Qunari don't go by names like the people you're familiar with do.  _Tallis_  is my role within the  _Ben-Hassrath_ ," she explained, offering the woman a shy smile. "It's just like how people call you  _Champion_. It describes you infinitely better than whatever syllables your parents came up with when you were born."

The Champion looked like she wanted to argue, but before she could, Tallis turned her back on the woman and knelt down at the centre of the grate. It took her nimble fingers less than three heartbeats to dismantle the locking mechanism, and as she stood, the elf heaved up the grate as though it weighed less than a feather. When Tallis glanced over her shoulder, she felt smug at the incredulous expression the other woman wore. "Why couldn't you do that before?"

"I wanted the chance to talk," the elf admitted. "To get to know you a little better." She should be ashamed of the innuendo, but Tallis couldn't stop herself from winking at the other woman before she stalked into the wide hallway...and nearly ran smack into their elven saviour. She was still dressed in her finery, though it had been ripped in several places, and dark streaks of blood covered the woman's flesh and clothing from head to foot. The scarred elf carried a different longsword in each hand, the blades similarly doused in blood.  _In other words_ , Tallis thought to herself,  _she looks exactly the opposite of the meek third-wheel_. "Who are you?" The Qunari asked, curiosity getting the better of her discretion.

The caramel-skinned elf cocked a brow at her, looking for all the world as though she could run Tallis through without a second thought. "I'm the Champion of Redcliffe," she declared. "Varric's got your kit, if you want to change." Then she sidestepped the Qunari elf, who stood, dumbfounded at the revelation.

Only belatedly did she notice the dwarven companion who'd come with them from Kirkwall. "You knew," she accused him, even as he shrugged off his pack and swung it over to her. "You knew who she was the whole time."

"Listen, lady," the dwarf gruffed, "when the Warden-Commander of Ferelden wants to play pretend, it's more than my tongue's worth to ask the reason why. Even I know that much." Then he turned, readying his crossbow, in case of uninvited guests. "You and Hawke might wanna get dressed. This thing might get a whole lot uglier before we're out of the woods."

Blinking, Tallis did her best to clear her mind of the fact that the elf she'd traveled with for much of the last week had been more than a skittish bandit from Kirkwall's slums. Such surprise only reinforced the folly in judging people. Then again, the Qun demanded that people be weighed by their deeds, rather their intentions or reputation. The elf had to leave such musings aside, however, and she moved back into the cell to change. The Champion- _of Kirkwall_ , Tallis reminded herself-was already halfway into her ceremonial armour...and the exposed half threatened to distract the elf from her own course, so she forced herself to look away as she slipped out of her silk and into her leathers. The familiar weight of her chest-piece and grieves was comforting in the certainty it gave, and her daggers were pleasing in the purpose they afforded.

The human Champion was finished more quickly than Tallis, and she took her place in the hallway beside the dwarf. "So how do we get out of here?" She mused, as if to herself. "Back through the castle?"

Tallis hopped into her last boot and stumbled out of the cell after the other elf, who hadn't brought any armour of her own, apparently. "There's a better way than cutting through the duke's  _entire_  army," the Qunari insisted.

The elven Champion barked a smokey laugh. "We've got a head start of about thirty," she proclaimed, and the casual disregard for life in her voice made Tallis shudder .

The nearby dwarf grunted from ahead of them. "Thirty-seven," he clarified without turning around. "But there's probably a couple of hundred just waiting for us to come back that way."

Somehow, Tallis got the feeling that those odds wouldn't dampen the other elf's desire for more bloodshed, so she spoke up. "There are catacombs nearby," she exclaimed, "where we can escape into the mountains. Then we can...get this over with." The others still didn't know the truth, but she could only hope that they would follow the human Champion.

"That's right," the other elf said, cutting into Tallis' thoughts. "This were a Grey Warden fortress, during the Fourth Blight. A whole city's worth of people took refuge in these caves." She readied her blades, turning away from the direction she'd come. "Maybe there'll be some darkspawn in them this time."

There weren't any, much to Tallis' relief, though the party encountered the subterranean pests called  _ghasts_  on more than one occasion, along with a complement of the duke's guard at one point. The elven Champion seemed happy enough to cut into man and beast alike, her ferocity and skill quite beyond what Tallis had come to expect, given her performance during the hunt. The human Champion fought in much the same way, though just a hair less quickly, perhaps a little less viciously. Tallis had to swallow her surprise anew when the other elf turned out to be  _saarebas_  on top of everything else, and she realised as she saw the two Champions fighting that the elf must have trained the human . It reminded her of herself and Salit, in a way, though the Qunari was usually too busy dodging swordstrikes or throwing her daggers to reflect too deeply upon what she observed.

Soon enough, the three women and the dwarf had sliced and shot their way through the caverns beneath Chateau Haine, and they stood at a crossroads of sorts. The left path would take them further into the mountains, where Tallis knew Salit would attempt to meet with the duke; the right path, by contrast, would see them to the road back to Kirkwall. Her path was certain, but she could not take the others for granted. "You see," Tallis spoke up, once she'd recovered her breath and her blades from the last fight. "Here's a way out. I told you it was a good plan!" By now, the other two had discovered Tallis' identity. To her great shock, the elf only had to endure the odd snark from the dwarf, while the elven Champion only sought more victims for the slaughter. But that didn't mean that either deserved to get more involved. "You all could go," she admitted. "There are, however...other options."

The lone human amongst them, the one whom the talkative dwarf named  _Hawke_  and the bloodthirsty elf called  _Beth_ , stepped toward the cavern's diverging exits. "Like finding Salit," she ventured, and just like that, the matter seemed decided. The woman shared a look with her dwarven companion. "What do you say, Varric? Up for killing some more Qunari?"

Tallis' eye twitched. " _Tal-Vashoth_ ," she corrected, a bit testily.

The human  _saarebas_  rolled her eyes at the elf. "You know what I mean," she sighed, her lips quirking. "Lead the way."

Tallis found the woman's smile infectious, and it lingered even after she turned down the left path. Three sets of bootsteps followed in her wake, and the elf was nearly overwhelmed with gratitude. "Hey," she mused idly, as the first light of morning began to show up ahead. It had been a  _long_  day, and it wasn't over yet, which might have explained the Qunari's lack of control. "Are you married?"

The taller woman's laugh sounded peaceful, like wind on stone. "Is that a proposal?" The Champion's honeyed eyes grew wider. "Why, Tallis, we've only just met!"

"But we've already been through so much together," the Qunari pointed out. "Wyvern hunts, betrayals, daring escapes from prison…"

"You're right," the  _saarebas_  breathed. "I'm feeling  _so_  close to you right now." Her elbow brushed against Tallis' bicep, seemingly by accident, and the elf couldn't help but wonder how she'd have reacted if they'd still been stuck in that prison cell.

Rather than entertain those thoughts to their conclusion, Tallis tried to climb down from the limb she'd pruned for herself.  _Vashedan_. "I just mean...you're the Champion of Kirkwall," she ventured. "Big. Important. I dunno...just wondering if there's a husband behind the throne."

A pair of cynical laughs sounded from behind them. "I don't think  _husbands_  are really Hawke's thing," the dwarf snickered, as they climbed out of the cave and into a gloriously-sunlit valley. "If you know what I mean," he added as he rubbed his eyes.

Tallis caught sight of the human Champion's cheeks flushing pink, and she thought she knew just what the dwarf meant, but before either human or elf could speak a reply, a mid-sized wyvern landed a dozen paces in front of them. " _Vashedan_ ," she cursed aloud, readying her daggers yet again . The Qunari dove into a roll just as the creature hurled its toxic spit at the group; if the previous day's battle was anything to go by, taking down this dangerous thing would take quite a bit of skill and not a little luck, even for the four of them.

Of course, yesterday the Champion of Redcliffe hadn't fought . This morning, with her mismatched swords and her ruined silks, the  _saarebas_  had no thought for escape, or even sound strategy. While the human and dwarf scattered like Tallis had, the other elf leapt over the wyvern's venom, and she kept running toward the beast's open mouth as it readied another gob. With a guttural cry, the elven Champion slid beneath the creature's long throat, bringing her bloodied swords together with such force that they nearly crossed in the flesh of its neck. Blood and acid spurted from the wyvern's wounds, coating the weapons and splashing over the elf's tattered clothing before she could get away .

She reacted quickly once she'd come out from under the wyvern, tearing away the last remnants of her finery, which now smoked in several places from the wyvern's potent venom. At first, Tallis thought that the other elf had been fast enough to keep the toxin from touching her flesh, but as the wyvern's dying shrieks faded, the Qunari heard the Champion hissing and, beneath that, the subtle crackle of acid burning on skin . "Frost my leg, Beth," the crimson-eyed elf commanded, and a moment later she sighed in relief. The human Champion took it upon herself to heal her companion's wound before the chill wore off, while the dwarf studiously ignored the fact that one of his associates was now stark naked .

Tallis very nearly cringed as she took in the state of the other elf; the strip of rough flesh that remained on the front of her left thigh was hardly the most notable scar she bore, and the Qunari found herself feeling embarrassed for having wondered what gave the woman the right to associate with the Champion of Kirkwall . To keep from staring, Tallis refocused her gaze on the wyvern. "Well, it looks like you're going to need another weapon," she observed, when she noticed the warped state of the blades in the creature's neck.

The human surveyed the damage as well. "You could borrow one of mine, Athadra," she offered; she hadn't even had time to draw them against the monster.

"I'll manage," the elf deflected, stepping past the other two women as though a naked elf strolling through a clearing were the most natural sight in Thedas. "Always wanted to try a Qunari spear or two."

The Qunari would have doubted her ability to handle even one of the weapons, but as she saw the elf's muscles rippling beneath the scars of her back, Tallis decided to reserve her judgment. Sure enough, the party wasn't long in crossing paths with some of Salit's  _Tal-Vashoth_  allies. The elven Champion caught a thrown spear in mid-flight, and used it to great effect against the grey ones, though she allowed the rest of her companions to participate. Together, their merry little band of murderers left a trail of horned corpses littered over the duke's grounds. Not even the leashed  _saarebas_  of the enemy could stand for long against the two Champions, who could overmatch them with elemental and spirit magic.

Shortly before noon, Tallis and her companions came upon Salit and the duke. They stood on a flagstone pavilion that overlooked a ravine, surrounded by their retainers, and they were in the process of making the exchange right at that very moment. The Qunari drew upon her last reserves to spirit away the scroll from the duke's lieutenant before he realised the true value of the information it contained, but she wasn't fast enough to save the man who'd saved her. She tried to talk to Salit, but the duke aired his displeasure with the  _Tal-Vashoth_  by splashing him with a viscous, glowing fluid. Out of nowhere, the duke's pet wyvern appeared, evidently drawn by the bait. And just like that, before Tallis' very eyes, her mentor and friend was devoured by the saddled creature.

The duke exchanged words with the two Champions, but Tallis did not hear them, deafened by the sudden loss. Ariqun would say that Salit was lost to her the moment he'd abandoned the Qun, but the elf couldn't reconcile such a principle with the reality of Salit's death . Now he would have no chance of redemption, as he'd given her; moreover, she'd never be able to see him again, to confide in him her fears and doubts, or draw inspiration from his advice. He'd been her teacher, her mentor, and her friend. And now he was dead, and the duke was laughing.

It was a relief when, at last, one of the Champions cut the conversation short. The battle was brutal but brief; despite her fatigue, Tallis made every throw of her daggers count, and in the end, she saw the bearded nobleman fall to his death on a rocky outcropping. All of the duke's men and the  _Tal-Vashoth_  had either fled or been killed, leaving the companions alone. Even so, the Qunari felt no joy in their victory. " _Ataash varin kata_ ," she recited dully as she looked over the ledge, still catching her breath. "Thank you," the elf managed, showing the human Champion a tired smile. "I  _definitely_  couldn't have rescued this without you," she said, double-checking that the scroll was still fixed to her belt.

The human looked just as exhausted as Tallis felt, which wasn't surprising, considering that none of them had slept in more than a day. "What happens now?" She ventured, wearily.

"First?" Tallis wondered, looking from one Champion to the other. "We go back to our cart, assuming it hasn't been looted, and get the other Champion some clothes. There is also the matter of the jewel I promised you…"

The woman nodded slowly. "And then...you aren't just going to disappear, are you?"

Tallis couldn't hold back her giggle. "You think I'd fit into your entourage?"

The elven Champion limped to stand beside her human counterpart. "I think you could manage a few days, at least," she commented, throwing the human a knowing glance. "Or at least a few nights ."

She couldn't quite tell beneath the smeared blood, but Tallis thought she could detect the human woman's cheeks colouring slightly. "I'm just happy to help a friend," the Champion declared, but there was an edge to her voice that the elf couldn't quite place.

Through her own fog of grief and exhaustion, Tallis didn't have the energy to still her tongue. "A friend?" She wondered, her head tilting coyly. "Is  _that_  what I am?"

The human took a step closer, almost unconsciously. "And deadly," she observed, with an indulgent smirk. "And delightful," she continued, with another step. "And...beautiful."

"Funny," the Qunari breathed, closing the gap between them with a footstep of her own. "I was just about to say the same thing." And then they were kissing on those burnt flagstones, in full view of their two companions. Tallis tasted copper and crimson from the battles, but also something much lighter beneath, like the first rays of sunshine after a storm .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to my wonderful beta-reader, buttercup23, and to everyone who's reading along!


	46. What Dreams May Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany's sleep has been troubled since assuming the mantle of the Champion of Kirkwall, but she's never had a nightmare quite like this before.

 

The incandescence which filled the room no longer disturbed him, driven as it was by stones aglow rather than torches aflame. The ever-shifting eddies of arcane energy felt more natural to him than breathing now, and he couldn't even recall the stinking gutters of the Alienage where he'd spent his boyhood. This night, as on most nights for much of the past year, the apprentice was taken with translating his private notes on magic into Ancient Tevene, the classical tongue that once ruled the length and breadth of the world. Once he'd conquered his nightmares, or at least learnt to hide his desires from the creatures of the Fade, Feynriel had been set to work experimenting with his gift, with a mandate to expand his magister's already-prestigious library. They called him  _somniarus_ , a Dreamer...the first born in two centuries. Such a rare gift made him quite valuable to his magister. Thus the young man's fate was bound up with his household as completely as though he wore iron chains rather than robes of fine velvet.

Wards on his door sent a tingling through the back of Feynriel's mind, and he became aware of the servant's presence a half-second before her knuckles brushed over the rich wood of his door. Rather than bid the woman enter, or even turn from his work, the apprentice flicked his wrist at the moment of her knock, so that the portal glided open at her touch . "Magister Flavius wishes the apprentices be ready to leave the villa in one hour's time," t he elven woman informed him, in the flat tones of one too-long drained of hope . "Does Master Feynriel require assistance?"

Feynriel had to fold his shudder into a long sigh, his quill still scratching over the vellum at his desk. "No," he replied curtly, still refusing to look at his guest, unable to face the gilded ring that marred her nasal septum and marked her as property. "That will be all." He kept working as she left him, doubtless off to relay her magister's instructions to the household's other apprentice.

Making oneself ready to  _leave the villa_  entailed far more than donning a pair of sandals, and so the apprentice could not keep scratching out his notes for too much longer. With a bracing sigh, the young man rose from his desk and took stock of his wardrobe. Trousers were a thing of his distant past, only worn in the Imperium by barbarians and the lowest of servants. Instead, Feynriel had his choice of long tunics and intricate togas to wear under one of his open-fronted robes. Each garment in his collection had lyrium-coated threads interwoven through the fabric, which made him more dangerous than any common soldier in armour could ever be. He selected a two-toned robe, burgundy and emerald, appropriate to exhibit Magister Flavius' wealth and influence without running the risk of outshining the man himself. Once he'd lain out the garments, the apprentice took his time unweaving the tight braid that normally took his long, straw-coloured hair; to be seen with any part of his body bound in leather would invite mockery that his magister might not be able to forgive .

At the appointed time, Feynriel emerged from his private chambers fully prepared, his leather sandals forsaken for a pair of silk slippers enchanted to keep the muck and hard stones of the road from soaking through the fabric. The villa's entrance hall was populated with a few servants dressed nearly as finely as the magister's wife, though the magister himself hadn't yet made an appearance.

The other young student under Magister Flavius' tutelage hung back in the shadows across the hall, her black hair blending in with the darkness cast by a nearby marble column, though the woman's fair skin glowed as hauntingly as any statue. She acknowledged Feynriel with a grudging nod, earned by the boy's magic, despite the stain that his elven mother had given his blood. Before Feynriel could sneer, and see cold indifference twist into open hostility, the chattering of servants and citizens in the wide hallway ceased. The apprentice knew the reason immediately, for despite the constant thrum of magic pressing outward from the villa's very walls, the air shifted as though it were water churned up by a great ship's prow.

Magister Flavius stood at the head of the grand staircase, his presence commanding the mages and mundanes alike. "You have my gratitude for gathering at such brief notice," the man announced, without preamble. He did not appear the most intimidating of men; indeed, Flavius stood a head shorter than Feynriel, and his beard was nearly thin enough to see through. Yet for those with sense enough to detect forces unseen, there was no denying the man's power-power enough to draw the esteem of Archon Claudian, who was all too happy to keep Magister Flavius as proconsul of Illyricum, Tevinter's easternmost province. "Quite unexpectedly," the powerful man went on, "my humble entourage has been invited into the household of Marcus Dio, for an evening of entertainment." The magister regarded his two apprentices one after the other as he made his way down the gleaming steps. "Does that sound a welcome distraction, Adronica? Feynriel?"

"Yes, magister," both apprentices intoned at once, from opposite sides of the hall. It was a lie, at least in Feynriel's case, but he dared not voice his true opinion.

Flavius' wife felt no such urge. "Surely we have better prospects than spending an evening with the fleshmonger," she snorted, just as her husband reached the marble floors. "He bores all Marothius every month, with his pathetic displays in the arena."

"Ahh, my dear Verona," the magister sighed. He had to lean up just slightly to brush a kiss along the woman's temple, taking care not to jostle the masterpiece of crimson that she pretended was her natural hair . "You may remain here, if you do not wish to mingle with my friends."

Though the phrase was presented as a reasonable suggestion, it sent a spasm across the woman's features as though it had been a slap . Verona blinked and smoothed her lips into a false smile. "Don't be ridiculous, husband," she retorted, her false bravado covering a deep meekness. "I shall let Marcus bore me for as long as it please you."

Magister Flavius inclined his balding head, and he gestured for his wife and his apprentices to precede him from the villa. The servants went first, holding open the great double doors, and a pair of soldiers surreptitiously followed the party as they loaded into a waiting carriage.

The sun was just setting behind them, casting the foothills of the Hundred Pillars with a magnificent glow. Feynriel kept quiet, ignoring the meaningless conversation that the magister and his wife kept up, just as thoroughly as he ignored the elves working in the fields that they passed on the road to Marcus Dio's villa.

Dio was a man of surprising influence, given that he had not a drop of magic in his veins, though he traced his bloodline back to at least two different archons. In Tevinter, however, one's family history normally meant little; it was common for prominent magical families to abandon their mundane children, and for families of lower means to sell the unlucky offspring into servitude. It was rare indeed to find someone of wealth in the whole of the Imperium who couldn't cast the simplest of spells, yet Marcus Dio was one of the richest men in Illyricum, if not in Tevinter . Though barred by the curse of his birth from holding any formal power, Dio could exercise his rivers of gold, and so get prominent magisters to enact his desires. But the mundane commanded a currency more potent than gold, and even more precious than the lyrium mines his servants worked in the mountains.

Marcus Dio trained gladiators, whose blood soaked the sands of Marothius, both within and without the arena. It was this legacy of blood, sewn into Dio's house and his name for generations, that gave the man more pull with the magisters than anything else. Marothius' arena hosted combat at least once per month, and magisters came from all across the eastern Imperium to feed off of the gore and death that Dio's men offered. Feynriel did not often contemplate such displays of greed and bloodlust, but it wasn't Magister Flavius' first time visiting his wealthy friend, and so the apprentice knew well that this night would bring more than its share of violence.

The western horizon was banded in orange and purple by the time the carriage arrived at Marcus Dio's villa. It was too dark to see the ludus, where the gladiators lived and trained, but at least a few of the well-muscled servants doubtless waited within their master's house. Feynriel said nothing as Dio's servants led the party through the villa's courtyard and into the house itself. Unlike the proconsul's villa, Dio's habiliment had only one floor above ground, but it covered nearly three times the surface area of Flavius' domain, and its wine cellars were legendary in their capacity.

For just a moment, the apprentice was nearly overwhelmed with the beautiful architecture that met his eyes, once they reached the entrance hall. Though he'd seen it twice before, the hallway's magnificence still touched him, with its pink marble columns, ivory statues, and gold filigree. But then, as with his previous visits, Feynriel recognised that such beauty had been bought with the blood of innocents over years beyond the counting-Marcus Dio claimed that the house had been old when Archon Hessarian had brought Andraste to her ethereal husband, more than ten centuries before.

The young man's disgust must have shown for a brief moment, for his fellow apprentice sneered at him. "Afraid you won't be able to leave, elf ?"

"That is enough, Adronica," Magister Flavius cautioned, even before Feynriel could rise to her bait. "You two will behave." Both apprentices inclined their heads and murmured their assent, and just a heartbeat later, Marcus Dio emerged from a wide doorway, dressed in a long tunic that couldn't quite be mistaken for a magister's robe.

The man was tall, taller even than some of his gladiators, and he hadn't let his wealth soften his midsection even as age had greyed the temples of his black hair. "Proconsul," he called, sweeping into a deep bow. "You honour me with your presence, and your lovely wife is as radiant as the sun." Verona took the flattery as though it were sincere, and she gave not one hint that she'd resisted the very idea of coming. The proconsul and his host clasped forearms jovially, and after a brief exchange of pleasantries, Marcus clapped his hands together, his bare cheeks dimpling with his grin. "I have a great gift for you, Magister Flavius," the man exclaimed. "Please, come into my home and be welcome beneath my roof, all of you."

Flavius gave his apprentices the subtlest of glances, and Feynriel followed a half-pace behind Adronica, so that she might not easily catch sight of his forlorn expression. Anything that Marcus Dio thought would please a magister lord could not be anything good...but Feynriel could not interfere, unless he wished to suffer a fate worse than the Circle ever could have been . The sitting room they entered was festooned with long benches, platters of food and wine resting in arm's reach of each of them. A diaphanous curtain separated the back third of the room, not quite transparent...though judging by the shadows that played over the fabric, Feynriel could well imagine that a line of gladiators waited to be revealed on the other side.

Only one shadow looked odd to his half-elven eye, and the young man's gaze fixed upon it even as he lounged. One of Magister Flavius' servants began attending him with a platter, which he ate and drank from without thought to offer sustenance to the elf, at least where the magister and Dio could see. Curiosity nagged at the apprentice while Flavius and Marcus discussed Imperial politics, and the prospects of chariot racing getting resurrected as a public spectacle, as it had been in the year after the great gladiatorial rebellion that had taken place nearly a decade earlier. Dio insisted that horses would never truly replace the bloodsport, while Flavius teased that the circus would be rebuilt any day. Each of them ignored the curtain and the gladiators who stood patiently behind it, until Feynriel was near to growling in frustration. Prolonging the inevitable would only make the debauchery that much harder to stomach, so the apprentice ate and drank sparingly, preparing himself for the dreaded moment. His curiosity about the odd shape in the centre of the line of shadows only grew in direct proportion to his trepidation.

At long last, Marcus Dio judged the time right to reveal his gift, and he snapped his fingers. A heartbeat later, the curtain fell to the floor, revealing a row of six enormous men who stood as still as marble. Their bodies appeared carved by the finest stonesmiths in the land; even the scars adorning their oiled flesh gave their forms character. But Feynriel was prepared for the impressive sight they offered, for the mixture of admiration and revulsion that rose within him. He was not at all prepared for the structure that the gladiators flanked, three to a side, and the apprentice felt his lungs emptying in a silent sigh even before his mind could make sense of what his eyes took in. Two wooden posts stood crossed, and a figure was strung up to them that might, once, have resembled a woman.

"You found her!" Flavius declared after a moment's hesitation, his laugh as gilded as the finest of Dio's statues. "You've found the whore who cheated me, all those years ago !"

* * *

The smell of sulfur and something far darker filled her nostrils, enough to make her retch her lungs out, enough to wither her very soul. The cave pressed in on her from all sides, seeming at once unimaginably enormous and impossibly confining. Light shone from one end, her way out.

Yet every step Bethany took toward the light robbed strength from her limbs. Every inch closer to escape brought more pain stabbing behind her eyes, as the light grew too harsh to confront. Panic welled within her, for even after she stopped advancing, the light kept gaining intensity, until it burned even through her closed eyelids.  _Dammit_ , she swore to herself, slowly coming to understand that she dreamt...and that her dream was pulling her deeper underground.

Unable to wake, and unable to withstand the pain of remaining still, the Champion of Kirkwall retreated toward the blackness. Now each footstep quelled the terror inside, each yard eased the pain beneath her skin. Seamlessly, the raw earth around Bethany changed into a Deep Road, and the last of the surface light flickered and died as she forged deeper into the nightmare. On some level she could feel her sleeping self begin to grow anxious, but here in this warped section of the Fade, the mage could only shiver with the secret anticipation common to all Grey Wardens whenever they set foot beneath the ground, even in their dreams. Bethany was going home, if only for a night .

Only something was off, she realised, as she walked on and on. She wasn't dressed in her Grey Warden plate, or even her Champion armour; instead, the mage wore the crimson chainmail and leather underarmour of her days in the Red Iron. When she reached behind her shoulder, she felt the reassuring grooves of her father's staff, before she'd mutilated it and stolen its core for the swords she wielded in the waking world. Yet the weapon gave her back no weight, and when she tried gripping it more firmly, her fingers passed through the material as though it were made of fog .

And then there were the lack of darkspawn. Normally, even in dreams where she was not herself a tainted monstrosity on the prowl, Bethany was not long free of the creatures; even now, the former Warden would occasionally jerk awake just before getting overwhelmed by the monsters. But in this dream, on this night, she seemed to walk for hours in utter solitude in the ancient dwarven highways. Patches of corruption grew so thick in places that it choked the magma channels to either side of the Road, but there was not a hurlock or an ogre in sight.

Bethany came to a collapse which blocked her way . As in the true Deep Roads, something had carved a side-passage around the obstacle, and without really understanding why, Bethany's feet shuffled over the pebbled stone to the mouth of the narrower tunnel. The magic of the Fade swirled around the mage as she stepped into the passage, and when her foot landed, it came to rest on a thick rug lain over rich wood. After a blink, the miles of oppressive rock and the miasma of decay were gone, replaced by a salt-smell so clean that Bethany's throat burned.

Soft sunlight bathed the room through a bank of windows to the woman's left, and when she turned to look, her heart skipped a beat; through the leaded glass and iron grillwork, she saw nothing but deep blue water stretching out forever, all the way to the sunrise. Bethany got the feeling that if she turned around to the other bank of windows behind her, the sight would be much the same. A soft breath caught somewhere in the room, and when Bethany spun to investigate, her knees nearly gave out. There, lounging on a sumptuous bed that dominated most of the back wall, lay the woman that had haunted the Champion's waking thoughts for the past eleven months. If she hadn't been dreaming, Bethany would probably have fainted .

"I should have told him to close the curtains," Isabela lamented, squinting out at both windows. "Should I have told him to close the curtains?" She was just as Bethany remembered, right down to the crimson armband. "I should have told him to close the curtains," the pirate repeated, more emphatically.

Bethany blinked, unable to make sense of the other woman's words even in the tortured logic of dreams. "You aren't real," she forced herself to say, even though each word felt like a spike driving through her tongue. "This...this isn't real."

That honeyed laugh sounded real enough. "That second part is right, sweetling," the thing that couldn't be Isabela allowed. "The first...is half-right, I guess. I'm still in pretty bad shape." A frown ghosted over the pirate's lips as she looked down at herself. "I doubt I could even fit into this damned thing, now," she growled, distaste evident. "And I've had to pull  _three_  grey hairs in as many weeks! Can you believe that?"

The incredulously self-indulgent expression accorded so perfectly with Isabela that Bethany found herself giggling, in spite of the absurdity of it all...or, perhaps, because of it. " Not one bit," she replied, and she felt the floor move subtly beneath her feet as she stepped closer to the bed, though she couldn't tell whether it was the dream changing again or simply the ocean beneath them...or if there was a difference between the two. "Since you seem to be the expert here, do you mind telling me why I've started dreaming about you after almost a year?"

Isabela pulled herself up into a sitting position, patting the bed beside her, and Bethany slipped onto the covers without a second thought. "It's...complicated, Beth," the pirate began. "You're...not going to like it," she predicted, shaking her head. "Not one bit."

Bethany's brows knitted, and she wanted nothing more than to lean over and rest her head in the crook of Isabela's neck as she'd done so often before, but an old suspicion held her back. She knew she wasn't in a darkspawn dream, at least not anymore, and that meant that this woman might not simply be a figment of the Champion's own mind. "What are you? "

The question stood between them for a handful of heartbeats, and just when it seemed the pirate was going to answer, another voice sounded from the other end of the captain's cabin. "She is a creature of flesh and blood," Bethany heard, and she turned her head so quickly that she felt the echo of her real neck muscles tensing . "Like you and me," the man continued, his long-fingered hands splayed before him in a pre-emptive gesture of surrender. "You don't remember me, but I owe you my life, and I vow there is nothing I wish from you, even if you had something to offer."

Bethany's first instinct was to run, or to yell, or to fight. Many lessons from her father had taught her not to listen to anything that might be a demon. Yet in all of her lessons, and in her few real encounters with spirits, the mage had never seen one promise  _not_  to take any offers from her . And as the young man's words sunk in, she  _did_  recognise him, in the dim recesses of her memory. "You're the boy," she ventured, her brows drawing down. "The one from the Alienage, that we saved from those slavers." He looked a bit older, but now that she'd made the connection, it was undeniably the same person.

"Feynriel," he supplied, giving her a curt nod. "As I said, I owe you my life...you, your brother, and Isabela, here," he insisted, nodding at the woman beside Bethany. "I'm sure you have questions, but please...let me explain, and then I'll try to answer anything you don't understand. If...you don't like what we have to say, we will go," he promised.

"And you'll never see us again," the woman who looked like Isabela added, her voice growing thicker by the syllable, until she couldn't face Bethany.

The Champion blinked, still uncertain. This could be an elaborate trap laid by a demon of desire, dangling the one thing she wanted most of all in front of her. "Talk fast," she decided. "And if I don't like what I hear, you'll wish you hadn't brought me here."

As hollow as the threat was, it seemed to affect the young man. "After you rescued me from the slavers, I went to Marethari, like you and your brother told me to. Only she couldn't help me; I'm a Dreamer, and I couldn't figure out how to keep demons from tempting me in my sleep. One day, I fell into a nightmare for days...I nearly became an abomination, if not for your brother and some of his friends, who came into the Fade and rescued me from my tormenters ." The man's lips kept moving, though he didn't pause for breath. "Carver convinced me to go to Tevinter, where they would know how to train me, and he was right. I became apprenticed to a powerful magister, who helped me gain control of my powers, and that's how I shaped this dream and brought you into it."

Bethany took in his words hungrily, dissecting them for some hint of subterfuge, and finding none. When he paused, she let herself absorb his meaning more fully, and for the first time in nearly a year, some little spark of hope ignited deep within her. "You mean I'm in your dream, instead of mine?"

"No," Feynriel said, far too quickly. "You're in hers," he supplied, inclining his head to the Champion's bedmate . Bethany looked to confirm the claim, but Isabela-if indeed this  _was_  Isabela-still didn't look at her. "I found her in a bad way," the Dreamer went on. "I'll...spare you the details, but from what I've pieced together, Isabela ruined a deal between some Antivan and my magister lord, and I was there when she was finally presented to him. He...told me to kill her."

"You  _should_  have," the pirate hissed, her brown eyes shining with unshed tears when she finally looked u p. "He should have," she repeated to Bethany, the blank mask of her face not quite concealing the pain lurking beneath.

The Champion looked from one apparition to the other, unable to fathom the whole of the circumstance. "I couldn't," Feynriel insisted. "I was tempted," he admitted, his hands coming up once more at the sudden ferocity in Bethany's expression. "Just because it seemed a mercy. She'd been…" Then he shook his head, evidently incapable of finishing the thought. "But then I recognised her, and I convinced my lord to spare her life...for now."

That little spark of hope guttered within Bethany, and she felt the shadow of the tears that must be staining her bedsheets in Kirkwall. "Why are you doing this to me?" She demanded, to the both of them. "I could have lived my whole life wondering...hoping…"

"I told you this was a bad idea," Isabela-the  _real_  Isabela, Bethany was nearly certain-scoffed. "End it already ."

Feynriel took a long breath, and as he exhaled, the dream shifted around them again. The ship's cabin was gone, replaced by a dark room illuminated with glowstones. Isabela seemed to melt before Bethany's eyes, her full cheeks becoming hollow and her lustrous hair growing brittle and broken. Her skin hung loose on her bones, and before she covered herself with a disgusted cry, Bethany saw that she carried more than a few new scars. " I am offering you hope," the man growled, his voice coming from the very walls. "Will you come? Will you save her?"

Bethany forced herself off of the bed, slowly turning away from the huddled lump of Isabela. Her fingers flexed, itching to take hold of the swords that were no longer at her hips. "Tell me where she is," she breathed, and in that moment, the Champion no longer cared if the vision was a demon's dream.

Feynriel told her, and begged her to make haste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! As always, thanks so much to buttercup23 for beta-reading!


	47. Paths United

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of the gang from Kirkwall are on their way to investigate Feynriel's information, and they meet up with an old friend of Isabela's along the way.

 

"Do you think they heard us?" The Warden's throat was still raw from the screaming he'd coaxed from her over the last couple of hours, after he'd slipped into her tent while she played at sleeping. She'd nearly strangled him to death before her surprise had given way to passion.

"I certainly hope so,  _querida_ ," Zevran hummed, shifting by her side to look up at the blanket of stars that lit up the night's sky. "You did rather destroy the tent at one stage," he pointed out. "Though we seem to have established a pattern of  _jodienda_  in the open air, where your friends might see." He offered her his best smirk, and he could see on her face that the Warden recalled the first night she'd claimed him for the pleasure he might give, rather than just the pain he could endure. They'd been separated from the ale-swilling dwarf and the bard by a campfire and little else, then .

Finally,  _finally_  he saw her cracked lips twist into the grin that she only gave to the truly fortunate. "You've got me there," she admitted, her blood-red eyes looking across the distance to where the others-the mage, the guard, and the beardless dwarf-were camped. "I'm glad you could find us, Zev."

The assassin's fingers stroked blindly down the Warden's left flank, catching on the familiar creases that had been cut into her flesh over the years. "There was no question," he breathed, letting his eyes go half-lidded . "Once the  _bastardo loco_ interrupted what had been a  _very_  nice dream involving a couple of Orlesian Chantry sisters and a  _fusta afilado_ , I had to jump at the chance to show him the consequences of his mistake."

Her laugh was reward enough for the jest, but when his Warden rolled sideways to regard him warmly, Zevran could almost forget the terror that had gripped him when his true dream had turned into a nightmare. "If this is a trick," she told him, her scarred face hardening as deeply as a Fereldan winter, "the lad will not enjoy the consequences."

Zevran lay back, not quite able to meet her gaze...or, rather, too mindful of the desires that her cruelty could still stir within him . "I did not come for him," he admitted, "or even for our wayward pirate. I came for you." The silence hung between them for a dozen heartbeats, broken only slightly by a stray breeze that scattered sand around them. He could see her in his mind's eye as though for the first time; he'd come for her as well, then, but his purpose had been much more nefarious. "I comprehend why the  _campeón_  must make this journey...but your own motives are not so clear to me."

"What do you mean?" The Warden rebutted, slowly sitting up and casting him her best imitation of an incredulous look. "I want to save Isabela, just like I thought you would. What else is there to understand?"

A slow intake of breath brought more than a few traces of her essence to his senses, and the assassin closed his eyes as he sampled the hints of nectar that remained upon his lips. "You know that Isabela and I shared a few months together, while you were a child," he breathed to the stars. "Such knowledge is greater than anyone else can claim to possess, but it is far too little for you to make assumptions on my behalf,  _querida_." His eyes remained firmly shut, so Zevran could not tell if his easy tone had softened the rebuke in his words. When his companion did not move, either to flee or, more likely, to kill him, the assassin drove his tongue into the heart of the matter. "Saving her will bring you no closer to your heart's desire, Athadra ."

The Warden sniffed somewhat dangerously, and the assassin thought that she truly might be preparing to strike him, but instead she emptied her lungs in a hiss. "You know." It was not a question.

He saw the moonlight shining in her eyes when he finally looked at her, not moving from his supine position. "Indeed I do,  _querida_ ," he sighed. "The king's  _confidenta_  was quite worried about you, when you parted, months ago." Slowly, his eyes wandered down the hard lines that his Warden's bloody work had shaped her figure into, until they settled upon the dull grey ring that still adorned her finger. "We may speak of it, if you wish."

"I do not," Athadra replied . He noticed her left hand clenching into a fist, which should have given him concern, but after a heartbeat he understood that she was merely pressing her thumb into the metal circlet that the witch had given her, so long before.

The observation made Zevran's ear tingle, but he resisted the urge to flick the jeweled ring he still wore, lest his Warden take the gesture as a comment on her own ear's disfigurement. "Forgive me," he offered, yet he pressed on, regardless. "But  _I_  wish to speak of it, then." Athadra's eyes flashed in the low light, blood and gold mixing in her gaze, but she remained utterly still otherwise. "Do you remember when first we met,  _querida_?"

Despite her apparent misgivings, or perhaps because of them, his Warden gave him another ghostly smirk. "I still don't know how I let you talk me out of killing you," she admitted hoarsely.

"That is because you have not asked me," Zevran informed her, his brow arching with a subtle challenge.

Athadra was another moment in taking the bait. "Fine," she conceded, shifting to jostle his underarm with a foot. "How'd you swagger me into letting you live?" She rolled her shoulder, which gave him a glancing view of the long scar across her chest, and he found himself distracted by the sight for the space of a breath. "You want me to beat it out of you, Zevran?"

That was enough to get his attention; his Warden only called him by his full name anymore when she wanted to goad him. "While I'm certain that would be  _delightful_ , I do not think your  _amigos_  will appreciate the surprise, were they to investigate my cries of pain." He shifted on the tattered oilcloth, which was all that remained of Athadra's tent. "Lay with me," he implored. "Let us look up at the stars together, and I shall tell you why I wanted so badly to live, once you had bested my ambush."

More quickly than he might have hoped, his Warden acceded to his request, settling supine by his side. Her shoulder brushed his ribs, but she did not seek to deepen the contact, and so the assassin didn't move his hands from the cradle they made for his head. "You say you wanted to live like it was an odd thing," she commented, from beside him.

"It was, at the time," Zevran allowed. "For you see, I had come to Ferelden in order to die." His Warden did not question the proclamation, did not react at all, and he had to fight a selfish frown. "I picked my hirelings from docksides and whorehouses, amateurs all."

A sharp chuckle sounded. "I could've told you that, even then," Athadra replied. "But...it weren't a mistake, like I'd thought for so long," she went on. "Interesting."

It was as much of an inquiry as Zevran could expect; in all of the years that they had known one another, the Warden had never once asked about his life before she'd shown up in it, even in that first interrogation that had decided his fate . Until recently, the assassin had extended her the same courtesy. "My plan was to retire from the Crows in the usual way," he continued. "I even had a nice ditch prepared to crawl into, if you had not finished the job completely."

"I would've," his Warden deadpanned in her husky voice, roughened by a thousand battles. Much like her face, it had been quite lovely once, but her fate had given it a deeper beauty that few could hope to match.

"Of that I have no doubt,  _querida_ ," Zevran admitted freely. "But you were not yet even a Grey Warden when I was sent to Denerim," he pointed out. "The arl, Howe, put me on a handsome retainer to help him deal with his enemies...and you were the first that could have plausibly bested me." More silence met his words, until he gathered his thoughts anew. "Her name was Rinna," he ventured, looking up at the blanket of stars without seeing a single one. "She was an elf and an Antivan Crow. Together, she and Taliesen were my consolation, and my hope."

A few strands of Athadra's wiry hair tickled the underside of his arm, and he knew she was looking at him, but he did not turn to face the woman. "You killed her," she breathed, her tone a shade beneath curiosity, though it held none of the contempt he would've expected from anyone else .

"We did," the assassin confirmed. "Taliesen and I were given evidence that she had betrayed us...evidence that fooled Taliesen. I was not convinced, but I played at being ruthless. When she begged me for her life and plead for her innocence, I told her that I did not care." Even now his voice sounded hollow, as though he were still trying to convince himself, after all this time.

"I understand," his Warden offered, and she knew well enough of loss that he believed her. "You still ain't said what changed your mind," she reminded him, softly.

The assassin had to smile to keep himself from grimacing. "You did,  _querida_ ," he said. "Of course. When I saw a creature as gorgeous and as deadly as you, any thought of death fled as quickly as a spider from a candleflame." She was still looking at him when he glanced her way, her face inscrutable, as it so often had been. "In truth," he continued, answering her unvoiced skepticism, "I could see that you were new to killing, and you were no proper leader ."

The Warden's scarred cheek dimpled with her smirk. "Some would still claim that last bit, especially lately," she sighed.

"And they may not be wrong, Athadra," Zevran pronounced, as gently as he could. "I watched you grow from a rawboned girl to the Champion of Redcliffe, and then to the Her-"

"Don't say it," she interrupted, her mirth flickering. "You know I hate that name."

The assassin inclined his head, unable to resist letting his eyes wander as he did so, but his gaze found his companion's face once more before she could try to distract him further. "It may sound strange," he forged ahead, "but when I came to comprehend that this unseasoned elf, this mage who preferred knives and armour to a staff and robes, was to be the stalwart to hold back the Blight...I found myself doubting whether or not you and your companions could succeed."

His Warden closed her eyes against his words, but she leaned into his touch when he brushed his thumb along her scarred cheek. "But we prevailed," Athadra replied. "And we couldn't've done it without you, Zev."

Zevran's fingers spread out along his Warden's neck, soaking in the rougher skin, kissed by the Archdemon's fire. "I no longer believe that is true,  _querida_ ," he insisted, and he held her gaze when her eyes flew open. "Or it would not be, if not for the  _viuda negra_  whose web snared your heart, and then tore it to pieces ." He could not conceal the totality of his distaste, but he did not back down from the look of warning that stole across Athadra's features. "I know that you still cling to her, even after everything she has done to spit upon your devotion."

The Warden stiffened, her neck twitching beneath his palm. "What do you know of devotion?" She demanded, her voice hardly more than a whisper. "Earlier you seemed willing to abandon-"

"I am a murderer," Zevran growled, his own expression growing harsh as he took his turn to interrupt her. "I have never pretended otherwise, Athadra, even for a moment. I promise you that Isabela has not forgotten this." The hand at her neck slipped down her shoulder, almost a caress, his fingers seeking ready access to a bundle of nerves between her shoulderblade and spine...just in case. "Do you even know if she wishes to be rescued?"

He could see the obvious protest flickering behind Athadra's eyes, but it took only a few heartbeats for the Warden's uncertainty to resolve. "No," she confessed, her brows knitting as they did whenever she was deep in her thoughts. "But I ain't here for her." She pulled smoothly out of his grip, and as she sat up, the assassin saw that her left hand held one of the stilettos that she normally kept in her boots .

Zevran had to laugh, impressed that he hadn't noticed the blade so close to his belly. "Then why are you here,  _querida_?"

His Warden shimmied herself into the simple trousers she wore beneath her armour. "Beth loves her," she supplied. "And I owe Beth."

The explanation was deceptively simple, and he understood the reason for the debt without having to ask, from what Leliana had allowed him to learn. "Are you quite certain that is all, Athadra?" He sat up, the chill of the semi-desert air finally cutting through the heat of his flesh. "You do not wish to find yourself a comfortable ditch, where your aching heart may finally be stilled ?"

"Is that what you think?" Her laugh cut so deeply that it might have drawn blood, interrupted only when she shrugged into her thick undertunic. "I've said goodbye, Zev, and I've vowed never to see her again." If the Warden's voice hitched, it might have just been from the effort of standing . "There's still a place for her in my heart, but she has no room for me in her plans, nor have I for her, in mine." The assassin did not know quite how to respond, and so he busied himself with his own cloth and leather garments. "I've been distant with my Wardens since last I saw Morrigan, it's true, but the reason why need not concern you. Nathaniel, Stroud, and Oghren understand...and the rest will fall in line soon enough." She grunted, a sense of urgency showing through her movements to strap herself into the heavy armour he'd coaxed her out of earlier in the night. "And we'll have to finish this conversation later."

Zevran was on the verge of demanding a reason when he realised just where they were, and he understood why Athadra had camped so far away from her Kirkwall companions. The sand beneath the ruined tent came from the Silent Plains, that great desert between Tevinter and Nevarra that had been made arid during the First Blight. It was said to be so bereft of life that corpses did not rot there; the only creatures who stirred within the heart of the sands came from beneath the ground. " _Si, querida_ ," he clipped, slipping into his leather armour with all of the haste he could muster. "It will be just like the old days, no?"

"No," the Warden replied, hefting her enormous sword, its veins of star-lyrium glowing eerily in the darkness. "Go look after the others; Beth and I can handle this lot ." He didn't know whether he felt relieved or slightly offended that his talents would not be required to face the monsters that had driven Athadra to arm herself, but he accepted her command with a nod. "I'll see you over there," she told him, and then she marched away with all of the speed that her fatigue and heavy armour allowed.

Zevran did not wait to watch his Warden disappear into the sand; instead he retreated from the edge of the desert, stalking half a mile through the shadows toward the larger campsite, where the denizens of Kirkwall had taken their rest. He stopped well short of coming into view, however, mindful that the dwarf called Varric might have a rather liberal policy with his crossbow bolts. He observed the dwarf and his human companion from a distance, as snarls and clashing steel filtered into his hearing from even farther afield. Bethany and her loyal hound must have already joined the fight, he mused, and she had apparently instructed her confederates to remain behind .

Varric kept his weapon at the ready, facing the sand, while the intimidating-looking woman called Aveline scanned the darkness in Zevran's direction. The assassin remained utterly still as her eyes passed over him twice, then three times, and then he was certain that she did not see. "Why does it have to be darkspawn?" She lamented under her breath, though of course the elf heard every word.

"Apparently old Scars didn't camp far enough away," the dwarf reasoned, without turning to face her. "I hear they can sniff out Grey Wardens."

Aveline scoffed. "You let the Commander hear you calling her that and I can only imagine the consequences ."

Zevran silently agreed, his lips twisting into a smirk as he listened to the Wardens take down what must have been an ogre. "Really?" Varric ventured, glancing over his shoulder for just a moment. "I thought she'd like it, given how proud she is of them. You really should get a look at her without any clothes on! "

Something soured within the assassin; he greatly misliked the dwarf's flippant tone when applied to his Warden , and if not for the regard that she kept Bethany in, Zevran would've been sorely tempted to make his offence known to her short friend. Instead he kept his silence, even as Aveline rejoindered. "I did," she reminded Varric. "And I've no desire to repeat the experience." The dwarf grunted, lapsing into silence for a few moments, before Aveline spoke up once more. "How come you've never given me a nickname?"

That seemed to startle the man, and he looked away from the distant battle once again. "What do you mean, Aveline?"

"Blondie, Junior, Daisy, Elf...you don't call anyone by name except me," she pointed out. "Where's my nickname?"

Varric sniffed. "Now that's just not true," he protested. "There's Hawke. And Bianca!" He hefted his weapon, as though for emphasis, which brought a curl to Zevran's platinum eyebrow.

The tall woman crossed her arms. "Hawke is a family name...and you called her Sunshine before she became the Champion," she pointed out. "And Bianca is a crossbow," she drawled derisively. "Don't change the subject."

The dwarf rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "Haven't thought of a good one yet," he admitted. "Other than what the Rivaini called you, anyway ," he continued, his expression and his tone both turning wistful. "Goddamn, I hope we find her."

"Me too, Varric." The un-nicknamed woman had turned away from Zevran by then, so he could not evaluate her face, but her voice sounded rough with pent-up emotion, and not all of it good. "Me too."

Despite his earlier bravado, the assassin found himself entreating the Maker-faintly, in his own way-that the mismatched pair had the right of it. He thought that the dwarf and the human woman would lapse into silence again, but before a dozen heartbeats had passed, Varric shot a cocky grin Aveline's way. "What do you think of 'Red'?"

Hardly missing a beat, the woman snorted. "Too common," she dismissed. In the moonlight, her straight russet locks glowed a dull orange. The assassin was reminded, perhaps too powerfully, of Rinna's fiery hair. He closed his eyes and tried to picture her face, as he'd tried so often in the years since she lay dying at his feet...and, just as the last time, and the time before that, Zevran could not bring her image to mind .

"What about 'Stout'?" Varric offered, oblivious to the concealed assassin's private anguish.

Aveline offered her opinion , but the assassin's attention had refocused on the more distant battle cries, for they mirrored his inner turmoil quite aptly. His practiced ear could tell that the fight was in its last stage; true to his senses, only a few minutes passed before two sets of heavy footfalls climbed out of the great sand sea and onto the firmer turf on which the camp had been built.

His Warden came into view first, her face and armour streaked with black ichor and smattered with blown sand. She looked exhilarated, more vivified than he'd seen her in years...perhaps since the day she went to Denerim the second time, and killed a god . Her crimson eyes met his and she offered him a subtle nod. "That were just like the old days, weren't it, Beth?"

The human Warden looked only slightly less pleased, though perhaps that was because she had less darkspawn blood to show for her effort. "Except we actually had the stars to fight by," she observed, cocking her head backward and inadvertently exposing her neck to any passing assassin's blade.

Luckily for her, Zevran was the only assassin in the vicinity, and he had little interest in angering his Warden any more than he might have done already. Athadra closed the distance to Aveline and Varric, who'd stopped their bickering over nicknames in the meantime. "Don't be alarmed," she told them, glancing to Zevran and jerking her head. "One of my old friends is behind you."

Zevran took that as his cue and sauntered forward, letting his boots scuff over the light grass, until he'd come into view of the humans and the dwarf. "Zevran," he supplied, dipping into a bow that did not take his eyes from either of the ones he'd spied during the battle. "I will be accompanying you until your quest is completed," he declared, offering his Warden an assuring glance .

Aveline looked skeptical, but Varric's eyes went wide after a moment. " _You're_  Zev?" He exclaimed with a guffaw. "I thought you'd be taller." Apparently, the Warden had not lied when she'd told him how close Isabela and the dwarf had grown during her stay in Kirkwall. The short man shared a look with the unbloodied human. "He and the Rivaini go way back," he explained. "Plus he helped the Commander during the Blight." Evidently the woman's warnings had sunk in after all.

She arched a brow at the assassin, seemingly unmollified. "How did you find us?"

"I have a keen sense of smell," Zevran retorted, flaring his narrow nostrils for effect. "Whenever Grey Wardens go for days without bathing, they can be tracked halfway across Thedas ."

Athadra squinted at him, but she spoke up before anyone else could further the interrogation. "Speaking of baths, we're half a day from Perivantium. If you all want a good rest before we get there, two of us'll have to double-up. Beth and I should take the same tent, clearly."

The Champion of Kirkwall didn't seem perturbed by the idea, but she still voiced her curiosity. "If we're sharing, can't Zevran just take yours?"

"No," the Warden replied, her scarred cheek dimpling with her smirk. "There's a thing he can do with his tongue and two fingers that'll make you lose control every time." The chorus of shocked objections to her characteristic bluntness didn't affect his Warden in the least, and she merely turned to the north . "We should head out before more 'spawn come sniffing for us," she said, a shade beneath a suggestion. "We'll have to march for hours before we get clear, whether or not we want to push on to the city."

A murmur of assent passed through the party, and Zevran found himself assisting his new companions in packing up their supplies. Indeed, surrounded by a dwarf and a warrior and led by a pair of Grey Wardens, the assassin felt somewhat nostalgic. They even had a dog and the threat of darkspawn to contend with .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to buttercup23 for her excellent beta-reading, and to everyone who's reading along!


	48. Just Rewards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunters close in upon their quarry, but they cannot hope to make it out of the wilderness without more allies.

"I told them that we'd be there today," the man complained, from the other side of the cart. They'd picked up both in Perivantium, along with a pair of tents-one for the newcomer, and the other for Athadra and Zevran to share. The assassin had been maddeningly careful not to drive her to ruin this one on the long march to Marothius, though he'd brought her close more than once . "It'll look suspicious if we're late."

"Dear cousin," Varric gruffed, from somewhere behind the whining man. "If the Warden-Commander of Ferelden says we go left, then we go left." And so left they went, with only a few grumblings from Varric's cousin. He called himself Thorold, and he stood taller than anyone in their party, even Aveline. Only the braids in his russet beard and the runes etched into his great warhammer showed his dwarven ancestry. Though when she looked closely at the pair, Athadra could see a distinct resemblance between the two men, superficially mismatched as they were .

According to the dwarf, his cousin was surprisingly well-connected within the Imperium. Of course, being wed to an Imperial senator wouldn't have hindered him in that regard. Thorold's contacts had gotten the proconsul of Illyricum, through whose provincial capital Athadra and her fellows now trod, to agree to meet with the Champion of Kirkwall and her retinue. Said proconsul also happened to be in possession of someone quite dear to the Champion of Kirkwall, which made his position incredibly tenuous .

But Athadra had no intention of marching straight into the seat of the magister's power, at least not without a reasonable guarantee that she'd walk out of it. "It's not much farther," she told her companions, and a shared glance with Bethany confirmed that the human mage could sense their destination as well. By now it was almost easy to ignore the sight of shackled slaves bearing loads through the crowded streets, so Athadra muscled her way past a line of disheveled elves who dragged an enormous block of marble over the dusty street . She turned down a wide alleyway, following the whisper in the back of her mind, until she reached a door with a white-and-blue griffon painted upon it. "Varric, you and Aveline stay out here with the cart."

She noticed that both of them looked to Bethany for a confirming nod, which didn't terribly bother the Commander-none of them were her Wardens, after all. Zevran didn't need to be told to remain behind, especially since Athadra had already discussed her plans with him over the past several nights. Three solid knocks on the griffon-emblazoned door were answered by a wary rogue, who took only half a heartbeat to notice the Commander's heavy armour. " _Imperator_ ," he breathed, stumbling into a bow through the half-opened door.

He continued his greeting in modern Tevene, which was removed enough from its ancestral tongue that Athadra could make out one word in three. She tried the King's Tongue to no effect, and then Andish, which the man understood decently well. " _Ich bin Kommandant der Grauen in Ferelden_ ," the Commander explained, "  _aber hier bin ich nur einander Vormund_." It was a lie, and one she'd soon put to the test, but the Commander was willing to be diplomatic...for the moment. " _Könnte ich und meine Kamerade innen kommen? Die anderen werden draussen bleiben_."

" _Aber natürlich_ ," came the expected reply, and the sentry scrambled backward to admit the two foreign Wardens. Bethany gave a cautious wave to her companions from Kirkwall before the door shut behind them.

The dark hall took a breath to grow accustomed to, even for Athadra, after the warm midday sun. By now the thrumming of the taint was a pleasant buzz in her veins, and she didn't need to confirm that Bethany felt the same familiar tingle. The guard remained at his post, but directed them to the end of the hallway and advised the Commander to announce her presence upon entering the main room of the barracks. She vowed to do so, and then stalked from shadow to shadow through the sparsely-lit corridor, all the while feeling the welcoming call of corruption. There must have been near to fifty Grey Wardens in the modest-looking compound, not to mention all of the Wardens that must be about their business out in the city and elsewhere.

By the time she and Bethany reached the end of the corridor, they had sound and smell to guide them, along with the affinity of their cursed blood. Another heavy door stood astride their path, but this one was unbarred, as Athadra proved by pushing through it. She came to a wide, circular room, filled with more than a dozen Wardens of varying sizes and states of dress, from civilian clothes to ceremonial robes and armour. Conversation in at least three languages halted when the Commander took a step into the common room, her hands spread to her sides. "I'm the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden," she announced in her mother tongue. "Here with my companion, seeking sanctuary and ai d."

A murmur broke out amongst the Tevinter Wardens, as the foreigner's words made their way through the crowd. Then, as one, the great mass of soldiers rose to their feet and began assailing her with questions or comments; even if she could have understood their myriad tongues, Athadra couldn't pick any one voice out of the din...but she could well imagine that her legend would have reached even this distant city .

"Enough," came a low voice, seemingly from the very walls. The word echoed about the room, stealing the mingling voices of the Wardens, until Athadra traced its source to the top of a far stairwa y. There stood a man in armoured robes, clean-shaven with long black hair that had streaks of grey. As he descended the rickety stairs, Athadra spied the stave couched behind his shoulder, and felt the subtle brush of his mana cutting through the taint he carried. "I am Senior Warden Tactus," he informed his guests, as the Grey Wardens took to their knees between him and the Commander. "And it is my pleasure to receive the Blightslayer ."

The appellation wasn't completely new to Athadra, and she liked it somewhat more than  _Hero of Ferelden_ , but she still grimaced. "My companion and I would appreciate a private word, Senior Warden," she ventured, grateful that the man spoke the King's Tongue well enough for Bethany to join in their conversation.

The man's dark green eyes shifted from the Commander to her taller comrade for a heartbeat before he nodded. He barked an order in Tevene that Athadra guessed meant  _As you were_ , for the panoply of Wardens began shuffling about the room to resume their former occupations. "Please follow me," Tactus supplied, before he turned back toward the stairs and led the two women up to his private office. The room was small but well-appointed, with a large ebony desk on one side and a roundtable for audiences on the other. "Please make yourselves comfortable," the Senior Warden invited them, indicating the curved bench that sat at right-angles to a chair, so that both seats were backed by walls. "Food can be arranged, if your hunger is too great."

There was no question that both travelers were famished; they were Grey Wardens, after all. But wariness and anticipation kept Athadra from accepting the offer, and Bethany followed suit. The Commander let her companion take the least-exposed position nearest the corner, while she and Tactus would sit nearly opposite one another, closest to the chamber's two doors. "I have a personal favour to ask of you," she began, once the Tevinter mage had thrown up a magical barrier over both entrypoints. "It...may not be easy to agree to."

The Senior Warden took in a long, slow breath, and he closed his eyes as he let it out. "You wish to free one of the proconsul's slaves," he ventured, sounding for all the world like he'd crossed Thedas himself. "The boy, Feynriel, sought my advice in locating the Champion of Kirkwall through her dreams." His gaze fell heavily upon Bethany. "You are she, I would guess."

The human nodded. "I am," she confirmed, sharing a glance with the Commander. "And you have my thanks for the assistance you've already given."

Athadra's heart climbed back down into her chest; it had leapt into her throat upon Tactus' prediction, a dozen treacherous scenarios looming in her mind, but the man's quick explanation proved convincin g. "You had to know where that help could lead," she pointed out, leaning forward and planting an elbow on the table that separated her from the Tevinter mage. "How much further are you willing to go, Senior Warden?"

The man's face registered only a hint of the distaste that must have swirled beneath the surface. "That very much depends on how far you are willing to go to see your friend released," he countered. "What do you plan?"

The Commander's brows knitted. "We've secured an invitation to the proconsul's villa based on Hawke's reputation," she informed her Tevinter counterpart. "When we and our civilian companions arrive, we're prepared to make a reasonable offer of gold to see this business ended." Her lips tipped into a frown, the peaceful gesture souring on her tongue.

"And when Magister Flavius rejects your  _reasonable offer_?" Tactus prompted, scrutinising his guest closely.

Athadra's frown wreathed into a hungry grin. "Then we shall pay him in fire and ice," she declared. "And we'll barter for blood with steel."

Silence settled over the table for a handful of heartbeats as the Senior Warden apparently considered his options. "You may well know the difficulty that this presents to me," he broached, after a considered breath. "The proconsul and I are not close, but he is the power in this province, and he boasts the ear of the archon. Moving incautiously could engender war between the Imperium and Kirkwall, at the very least; my own involvement might well bring Tevinter and the Anderfels to conflict."

The Commander inclined her head. "That is why it's a request, Senior Warden Tactus," she reiterated. "If need be, Hawke and I will go in alone." She leaned back on the bench, sharing a small glance with Bethany, which told the human mage to hold her tongue.

Tactus did not seem reassured by the elven Warden's words. "Flavius is a magister of great skill, with a small army of well-trained guards," he pointed out. "Forgive me for saying this, Commander, but if you and the Champion bring your mundane companions to the epitome of his domain without assistance, none of you will emerge from it."

"That's what they told me when I faced the Archdemon," Athadra boasted, trying to keep the cool calculation from her eyes. "It's what they told Hawke when she stood fast against the Arishok. And yet we breathe, while they do not ."

The Senior Warden rasped a chuckle. "The implication being that I cannot let you throw your lives away in this far-flung corner of the Imperium without first offering my aid," he observed, shaking his head with an amused smirk. "Your subterfuge is as obvious as it is correct, Commander ."

Bethany licked her lips cautiously. "So...you will help us?"

The man dipped his head in a singular nod. "I so pledge," Tactus allowed, and Athadra felt the tingle leave her fingers. "However, I would put a mind toward our tactic, in order to avoid open warfare."

"Of course," the Commander agreed, relieved that her transparent attempt at manipulation hadn't backfired. "I were thinking that we could frame one of Flavius' rivals for his murder. Has he any who might be capable of bringing down his house?"

Tactus considered the suggestion, his brows knitting. "Perhaps," he ventured, after a moment's thought. "Yet collecting sufficient evidence requires more time than I believe you have; certainly more than an evening. I doubt such a ruse would hold for long enough to spirit you out of Tevinter, much less stop the Imperium's armies from marching."

Athadra's scarred cheek dimpled with the force of her grimace, but it was Bethany who spoke next. "You said that the magister has a large guard force," she recalled, looking deep in thought, herself. When the Senior Warden nodded, the woman leaned forward. "Do any  _Tal-Vashoth_  serve there? Mercenaries or slaves?"

The man looked taken aback by the question, but as he considered it, a cunning gleam entered his eye. "I believe there are two horn-headed mercenaries in the proconsul's service; of converts, I have no accounting." He stroked his bare chin thoughtfully. "Having the grey-skinned monsters in one's employ can be a mark of prestige amongst the magisters, showing their power over the hated foe."

"But that ain't without risk," Athadra observed, locking into her companion's implication. "What if these mercenaries aren't really rebels?" The Tevinter Imperium had never signed on to the Llomerryn Accords, which had brokered peace between the Qunari nations and those of the rest of Thedas. Consequently, the Imperium was in a more-or-less constant state of war with the heretic lands over the island of Seheron, which had been wrested from Minrathous centuries before and remained hotly contested. " Could we mock up a Qunari assault on the proconsul's residence ?"

Tactus looked as though the suggestion wasn't an utter catastrophe in the making. "I believe we can," he assured them. "Several years ago, there was a slave uprising led by a Qunari Sten who'd been captured in battle, and was taken into service as a gladiator. It led to the deaths of several magisters in the province, both during and after the revolt." He gave a shudder that hinted at a darkness rivalling that of the darkspawn, but the Tevinter Warden didn't appear willing to elaborate. "I think that a successful subterfuge of that sort would avoid Tevinter swords in the Anderfels and in Kirkwall."

Bethany appeared mutedly pleased that her idea was considered with such merit. "What evidence would it take to pull this ruse off," she broached, "and could we gather it in time to strike tonight?"

"I believe so," Tactus replied. "We keep a store of Qunari swords and spears in the cellars here...some as trophies from battles that our warriors fought before they took the cup, and others as auxiliary weapons for forays into the Deeps. We would need only to break a few spears and leave some sigils behind in order to let the archon's lieutenants draw the appropriate conclusions." He nodded to himself, reaffirming the soundness of the plot. "Of course, Magister Flavius' other slaves will have to be dealt with."

Athadra was on the verge of nodding when Bethany's curious look caught her attention. "What do you mean?" The Champion of Kirkwall inquired. "What about the other slaves?"

The elf sighed, her look a shade above pitying. "They'll be witnesses, Hawke," she prompted, unsure why the other woman hadn't considered this angle long before now. "No matter how we do this, Flavius' family, apprentices, guards, and slaves will all have to die unless we want to get caught." It seemed obvious to the Commander, and hardly controversial, as such things went . "If anyone's left alive, they'll be put to question by the archon's forces."

She could see a cold pall of horror descend across Bethany's features for a few heartbeats, before the woman's expression settled into steel. "No," the Champion pronounced, looking from one Grey Warden to the next. "The slaves are innocent. They don't deserve to die ." The innocence of her words was tested by the calm certainty of her voice.

The Senior Warden looked taken aback by Bethany's proclamation, but he recovered himself with a steadying breath. "Flavius is a magister of Tevinter," he explained, his lips twisting in something like distaste. "When he feels no other recourse, he will call some few of them to defend him with their lifeblood ."

Athadra growled her own disgust. "And most will have no thought to resist him, when his magic comes calling on their veins," she added, with a confidence borne of a decade spent shackled in a tower. "You've faced enough crazed blood mages to know how horrible being a thrall can be."

The look that Bethany gave her would have frightened the Commander in her former life, before she'd poisoned her blood and dedicated her life to facing other people's nightmares. Athadra could sense the woman's lingering resentment over being forced to learn the forbidden craft; more of the elf than she cared to acknowledge was sympathetic, given what they'd both seen and done with the power of their blood. When the Champion spoke, however, she had no words to spare for that old argument. "We will save as many slaves as we can, along with Feynriel," she exclaimed. "They deserve to be free." Her challenging stare met Athadra's gaze and shifted smoothly to Tactus', without surrendering. "If it were truly a Qunari assault, they would take any who surrendered and agreed to become  _viddathari_. Surely the magisters know this."

The Commander was impressed by her friend's resolve, and not a little bit by the woman's cunning. Though he looked more than a little skeptical, Tactus himself conceded the validity of the enemy's tactic. "Yet this entails greater risk for me and my forces," he pointed out. "The proconsul has upwards of a dozen household servants. If a third perish in our attack, that still leaves us with more than eight elves to transport into the mountains."

Athadra's brow arched. "And there is the question of what happens after we get across to Antiva," she observed. "Do we simply set them free in the swamps and hope they do not find their way back to Tevinter?" The elf grunted a dark laugh. "Or better yet, hand them over to the Qunari ourselves ?"

Bethany did not retreat an inch, and in that moment, Athadra knew that she would turn around and walk all the way back to Kirkwall empty-handed rather than sacrifice innocents, even to save Isabela. "I'll take responsibility for them," she declared. "After a time, I imagine I'll be able to place them around Kirkwall as proper servants, or help them seek whatever means they desire."

"If you truly believe that is wise," Tactus broke in, "I shall not argue against it. Though we all know it would be better to march them into the mountains and ensure they never climb down from them." He put up a hand to forestall any word from his guests, either in argument or support. "I respect your humanity, Champion Hawke," he allowed. "And I greatly admire your legend. However, I cannot ask my Wardens to take on this task out of simple obligation."

The Commander frowned, leaning heavily on her elbow and nearly placing herself between the other two mages. "What is your price, then, Senior Warden?"

Tactus' reply was immediate, and obvious in hindsight. "The boy," he announced. "I have felt his power first-hand, and he has many years yet to grow into it." His expression held no more flexibility than Bethany's. "If you wish me and my Grey Wardens to collude in the murder of Proconsul Flavius, Feynriel will take the cup."

Athadra followed the Tevinter Warden's stare to Bethany. "And if he doesn't wish to become a Warden," the human began, "you will kill him."

"At least you haven't forgotten that much," the elf retorted, though she smirked to take a bit of the sting from her words. "The boy did what he thought were best," she went on, consciously softening her gaze. "Sometimes, there's no outrunning the consequences ."

Bethany inclined her head, though whether it was in agreement or in resignation, Athadra could not tell. "But you will do it," she breathed, her honey-coloured eyes sharp as they met the elf's crimson orbs. "He'll have a much better chance, then."

The Commander's face twitched in annoyance, the elf misliking the other woman's presumption and her lack of discretion, but she couldn't blame Bethany for the stipulation . "Amongst my number in Ferelden is a brilliant alchemist," she explained to the Senior Warden, prompted by his questioning look. "We developed a Joining that kills one in ten, rather than one in two or one in three." She could see further questions looming within the Tevinter Warden, but the lateness of the hour was beginning to weigh on the elf. "I will supply you with the materials to induct Feynriel once we're en route to Seleny."

Tactus appeared cautious and curious in equal measure. "Will you share the secrets of this ritual, so that we might reproduce it?"

"No," the elf replied, nearly at once. "The First Warden is aware." Those five words were sufficient to still any further inquiry on the part of the Senior Warden, and so Athadra pressed on . "Now, we need to turn our conspiracy into a firm plan, and we must do it quickly if we've any hope of success." When Bethany and Tactus both voiced their accord, the elf began outlining the shape of their evening. "Hawke will take her companions into Flavius' villa itself, and I will follow, amidst your Wardens, under cover of darkness. I assume the estate is warded heavily?"

The Senior Warden nodded. "Reinforced with blood sacrifice over many generations," he admitted. "You would need to be blood-bound to someone within the scheme to bring it down for the rest of us."

Bethany's eyes lingered on Athadra for half a heartbeat. "That won't be a problem," she assured the Tevinter mage. "Though, when it comes to that, I may be a bit distracted to help in dispelling the wards from the inside."

The Commander moved to stand. "I think I should be able to deal with it, with your help, Tactus," she ventured. "Make sure to tell your men to spare anyone with a collar," she reminded him, "but everyone else must die-except for Feynriel, of course."

Tactus bowed his head. "Yes, Commander," he acceded, before rising from his seat. "It will be an honour to do battle at your side...and yours as well, Champion Hawke," he assured the other human mage. "We should be ready to spring our trap within the hour."

"Good," Bethany said, as she made it to her feet. "At long last…" She didn't finish the thought, but she didn't have to.

_At long last_ , Athadra thought, with a modicum of envy,  _your solitude will be ended_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to buttercup23 for her awesome beta-reading!


	49. Freedom's Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela has finally earned her freedom, at least from the magisters, but it did not come without costs.

Seven days. Seven bloody, awful, glorious, sinful, stressful, amazing days of scrabbling over mountains and marching across plains and then wading through interminable bogs, each league promising deliverance to the few that had escaped the old man's house. The Grey Wardens had been left behind at the rugged border, with Feynriel among them, leaving eight slaves to see through Antiva.

_Nine, if you count me_ , Isabela thought to herself as she watched the half-starved elves walk up the gangplank and onto the boat that would take them south. The pier beside her creaked, which sent her trembling hand into the folds of her ragged overcoat, but Zevran's familiar voice soothed her as she fumbled at the hilt of  _Heartbreaker_.

"It is pitifully small, don't you think?" He mused, using the common King's Tongue of their company. "But then again, it would have to be, to ply its trade so far up the  _Rio Cuchilla_. Did you ever make it so far on the  _Siren's Call_ ,  _mi amiga_?"

They stood on the docks of Seleny, near the headwaters of the great river that bisected most of the country. "No," the newly-freed slave rasped, unable to turn her eyes away from the boat. "But she'll make it." She had to.

Zevran muttered something else, something witty and meaningless, and when she gave him no answer he took his own turn up the plank and onto the vessel. Varric had a jovial goodbye with his tall cousin before he waddled up behind the assassin, and then Lady Man-Hands made her way stoically onto the boat.

Which left the two Grey Wardens and the dog. That hound would be the death of her, she just knew it, as he panted expectantly up at the shrouded pirate. "And just what are you waiting for, mutt?" She breathed, more words than she'd spoken since losing her chains.

Barcus  _whoofed_  and jabbed his nose at her, but it was his mistress who spoke up. "He just wants to make sure you get on the boat safe and sound." Bethany's eyes were kind, as they so often were, but there was a tightness about her mouth that unsettled the once-and-future pirate.

"Didn't traipse across half the bloody continent to leave you behind in Antiva," Athadra put in, her own face carved from sandstone. "Get onto the boat, Isabela."

A sour pang of-what? Envy?-sounded deep within the thief's chest. "I'm not one of those fools you can order about, you know," she declared, her feet rooted to the old wood of the pier even as her deliverance hung high in the river beside her.

The elf didn't move a finger-width, but her crimson eyes flashed. "Do you want to be ?"

Isabela rolled her eyes away from the Commander of the Grey, but they landed on Bethany's face, and stuck there. The woman looked torn between incredulity and concern. "Please, 'Bela," she breathed, nodding toward the gangplank. "Let's go home."

With an uneven intake of breath, the would-be pirate turned on her sandaled feet, and marched onto the cog without an inch of sway in her step, knowing all the while that she didn't deserve the water . She didn't deserve to be free at the cost of Feynriel's future; she didn't deserve to live, when so many had died for her vanity already. But the damned dog was behind her, nosing the backs of her thighs in a way that would've gotten him slapped a year ago. Only when Isabela leaned against the ship's railing did two pairs of heavy boots follow up the groaning wood. Athadra only paused to nod at the shawled, scarred woman before crossing the deck, likely to keep her counsel with Zevran.

Bethany didn't step away, but she didn't move to close the distance that had grown up between them in the long months since Isabela had abandoned her. She'd stood guard every night as Isabela slept, as much to keep the pirate from fleeing into the wilderness as to keep her safe, but the Champion of Kirkwall had put no other pressure on the liberated woman... which was its own kind of madness.

The deck beneath her feet shuddered as the small ship's crew pushed it away from the dock, and the subtle nudge of the great river's current stole whatever strength Isabela had managed to reclaim during the harrowing march from Marothius. Her legs gave out and she scrabbled against the low wooden wall of the boat, but before she could fall on her arse, a pair of sturdy hands anchored to her torso and helped her keep both of her feet beneath her. Isabela's throat closed around her sharp exhale, her skin aching from too long without a kind touch, but when those strong hands pulled away, she spun more quickly than was entirely wise. "No," the unsteady woman managed, grasping Bethany's wrists before she fell again. "Don't go." She could feel a dozen eyes on her, old companions and strangers gawking curiously, but none of them mattered. "Please don't go."

Isabela could see the swirl of pain that the other woman worked so valiantly to hide away beneath a mask of concern, and it nearly undid her when Bethany swallowed to buy herself time. "I won't," the Champion assured her. "I promise."

The image of Bethany's strained face smeared beneath the would-be pirate's unshed tears, and she used another eddy in the river's flow as an excuse to slump forward, burying her face in the Champion's cloth and leather and chainmail. It still stunk of fire and lyrium, and more than a little bit of blood, and as Bethany's arms curled around her shoulders, Isabela tried not to think overmuch about how the garments had become so soiled .

* * *

The manacles were supposed to be an unfortunate necessity, but they still chafed at her wrists and ankles. Each morning, the miserable old sea-otter would come to wake Feynriel and ensure that he wasn't being too lenient on his new pet, which meant that her skin was still marred with scars borne from her months of misuse, and fresh bruises from the magister lord's personal attention. Isabela was grateful for that, in a way, since she didn't think Feynriel could survive having to beat her in front of his master...and, without him, where would she be?

This morning was no different than the rest; the boy's blessing of dreamless sleep ended half a heartbeat before the door of his small chambers opened with nary a creak to the hinges, and the fish-eyed bastard strolled through the doorway as though he owned the place...which, Isabela supposed, was perfectly true. "I see you are awake, Naishe ," he allowed, in a perfectly-cultivated King's Tongue. "I trust you slept well?"

Even now, Isabela felt like ignoring him, and wringing his neck all at once...but there was no fight left in her, not after the black-haired monster that had given her over to this magical man. "I did," she allowed. She'd decided early on to acknowledge the name he'd given her, the name he'd lifted so easily from his friend, who in turn had bought it from her with a great deal of pain and blood. "Master," Isabela amended, as evenly as possible.

Feynriel stirred from his four-posted bed, and as he breached the hanging curtains, the magister's attention drifted to the boy. He spoke to the apprentice in Tevene, which Isabela was completely hopeless at. When Feynriel only nodded and offered an affirmative, Isabela was surprised to see the old man turn on his heel and retreat from the room. Of its own accord, the door shut crisply behind him, and the apprentice and the slave were alone once more. Feynriel extended a hand to her, helping her off of the pile of cloth that served her for a bed. And then, like always, he diverted his eyes with a blush hinting at his cheeks. "I...think you can wear a robe today," the boy ventured. "At least for awhile ."

"If it'd make you feel more comfortable," the slave snorted, long beyond caring whether or not that was true. "What did the old seagull tell you before he trotted off?"

The apprentice was already crossing the floor to fetch a plain shift, only slightly softer than burlap, which Isabela was occasionally allowed to wear about the mansion. "Magister Flavius has bid me to make you presentable," he mumbled, still facing away from her. "He is expecting...guests."

Isabela's stomach lurched. "They're here," she pronounced, not bothering to lower her voice. An odd twisting coursed through her chest. "The fools."

That was enough to bring a sharp look from the boy, who'd been adamant that they only speak freely in her dreams, and then only rarely . "I only know that I am to heal and bathe you before evening falls," he snapped, though the mask of haughty indifference wasn't quite perfect yet. "But we should eat and I must work, first." The apprentice glanced away once more, but held out the cloth. "Now, if it please…?"

"It lives to," the slave retorted, her chains clanking as she snatched up the simple shift. She hissed at the feel of the rope cinching across her belly and ribs. "You'd might as well get the healing over with before we break our fasts," she prompted him, her brown eyes glinting through the greasy ropes of her hair. "It won't be any easier for either of us afterward." Isabela ought to know; being healed during the thick of battle was one thing, with your blood and fear and bloodlust flowing to mask the pain...but mending older hurts was like laying open a scab and salting the wound, nearly as bad for the caster as the one being mended. It was one reason she could forgive the boy for leaving her to her deep aches. That and the fact that she deserved each and every one, of course.

The apprentice hesitated for another moment, apparently weighing the sincerity of his charge. "If you're certain," he allowed, and when Isabela nodded, he gestured for her to take a seat in the high-backed chair that he often used for reading. Without asking, the boy undid her manacles and flung them disdainfully onto the floor, and he stalked about the room, gathering a few supplies. "He wants the most noticeable scars gone," Feynriel explained, once he'd filled a basin with water and procured a small dagger from his wardrobe. "But that can wait until the very end," he hastened to add, just as the slave moved to rid herself of the cloth she'd only just donned.

"Do it first," Isabela seethed, her voice far too weak to truly be commanding. A quick glance down her own torso showed the slave how far she'd come since her days as a ship's captain. Her fists balled at her sides, and she fought hard to suffocate the small flame of hope that had sprung up in her belly. "If she's coming, she can't see me like this ." There was no room for doubt in the pleading look Isabela spared her reluctant master. "Get them all...then heal the rest of me." Her throat caught, but she forced the last word out. "Please."

Feynriel paused for the space of a breath, his eyes finally dropping from her face to inspect the state of her flesh. He looked slightly repulsed, and more than a little anxious, for her request could not be accomplished without a great deal of pain on the boy's part . But, for some reason unfathomable to the slave, he must have judged her cause a worthy one. "Very well," the lad acceded. He dipped a cloth into the water and offered it to her. "Please make yourself clean."

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Isabela knew that the boy's reticence came from some sense deeper than simply aesthetic...likely he felt guilty over holding her life in his hands, possibly owing to his own upbringing amongst downtrodden elves, though the slave had known several products of poverty that had taken to cruelty with abandon. But the bigger part of Isabela took his refusal to touch her as disgust, doubtless borne from the very blemishes that he'd been commanded to correct. So she took up the proffered cloth, damp and white. It was nearly black with the grime of weeks by the time she was done scrubbing herself, everywhere she could reach.

She even took the blade into her own hands when Feynriel hesitated, and Isabela opened her flesh anew wherever he directed. Across her cheeks, her arms, her breasts, her belly, her thighs...nearly everywhere one cared to look, the slave sliced deep into her skin, and the apprentice knit the rent flesh back together until there was no trace that a knife had touched her at all . And with each touch of his magic, her fresh wounds screamed and burned; all of the pain Isabela would have felt over the course of weeks was compressed into the span of seconds. The agonising process took hours and more than a few screams, and by the time her flesh was whole again, Isabela was near to collapsing. Over the course of the morning, Feynriel's hand grew steadier despite the pain that his sympathetic magic caused him, so that he was able to take up the blade against those scars that Isabela couldn't reach.

When the boy had convinced Isabela that he could do no more to mend her skin, she let him help her onto her feet and into the bloodstained robe. The lad wasn't finished healing her-she had more wounds in mind and body than could be seen against her skin, after all-but he insisted that she be bathed more thoroughly before he bent back to the task. Feynriel led Isabela through the mansion's labyrinthine hallways, to the great baths that had been carved into the building's foundations. She noticed that he hadn't returned her manacles, but the slave didn't say anything, in case it was a simple oversight on his part.

The cavernous room was filled with steam and lit brightly by glowing stones set into the marbled columns, which caused shadows to dance across the ceiling from the rippling pool. "Take all the time you need," Feynriel insisted, as he eased her out of the soiled cloth once more.

Still trembling with the echoes of her recent torments and the anticipation of her future ordeal, Isabela eased herself into the pool, and almost immediately sank down to her shoulders, letting the water take her weight. Heat seeped into her flesh as inexorably as the vapour that invaded her lungs, and the slave felt her tension begin to melt away. Just as she turned, thinking of teasing the boy for not following her, Isabela caught sight of the pair of guards who stood inside the door. Their full-faced copper helmets betrayed no expression, but the slave still felt their eyes on her, and her skin set to crawling anew.

Instead of teasing Feynriel, then, Isabela sought refuge as far away from the strange men as possible. They didn't move, or even acknowledge the presence of the apprentice and his unshackled slave, but she still imagined them leering. In another life, in another place, she would have struck a pose and given the men a wink before putting her knives to their throats...but now her blades were gone, hidden away in the magister's private collection somewhere far above them, and Isabela had to suppress the urge to shiver in the hot water .

Feynriel still didn't look at her, but he did stalk her around the pool, never letting the slave get more than a dozen paces from him. She saw that he was nearly as wary of the guards as she, and felt grateful for his presence as she scrubbed her body and her hair with some proper soap. When at last she emerged from the pool and passed a burnished copper column, Isabela hardly recognised the woman that stood reflected in the polished metal. Her skin no longer felt like a wilted leather pouch over her bones, and when Feynriel tentatively approached her, she sensed something quite different than disgust in the blush of his cheeks. "I think I'm ready," she informed him without waiting to be prompted. Her heart beat a half-tick faster, and she wasn't certain what she was ready  _for_ , but for the first time in nearly a year, the pirate-turned-thief-turned-slave was looking forward to what the evening would bring.

Once Feynriel had safely ensconced the two of them in his private rooms yet again, he set about finishing the work he'd begun that morning. His magic had to delve deep within her to knit her muscles and soothe her bones, and the renewed agony threatened to make her re-live the worst of the tortures that she'd faced in Marcus Dio's ludus. Yet Isabela endured the thorough work of the apprentice, and just past midday, she felt the last of her aches fade.

True to his word, Feynriel spent the rest of the afternoon at his own labours. She didn't thank him for what he'd done, but neither did she curse him for waiting until his magister gave him permission. Instead, Isabela filled the hours by imagining, and then dreading by turns, what must lay in store. Living in chains had offered its own kind of freedom...from doubt and fear and uncertainty, if not from pain. Not that living as free as a lark hadn't brought its own share of torment, both given and received. But now that she was fed and rested and healed, Isabela knew that she couldn't live as a slave any more than she could have converted to the Qun. She wasn't sure she deserved the life that her saviours were intent on bringing her...but it had been years since Isabela had cared about deserving anything she took .

So when one of the magister's slaves knocked softly at the door and told them to make themselves ready to entertain the old man's honoured guests, Isabela let herself be dressed in a fine gossamer slave's gown, and she even accepted the gold-leafed collar the magister had sent for her. She accepted the fine leather sandals that marked the most honoured of the magister's slaves, and she followed Feynriel without any complaint, her fingers tingling all the while to find their way around his master's neck.

* * *

The boat rocked with the great river's current, and when she tilted her head back to peer up at the stars, Isabela could almost imagine that they were already over the open ocean. She kept leaning until her bandana-covered head nestled against Bethany's chest, and the woman shifted behind her, until those strong legs braced against the would-be pirate's ribs. "Thank you," she breathed, the words soft enough to be stolen by the nighttime breeze.

Bethany's face inched into view, upside-down from the lying woman's vantage. "For what?" Her lips twitched into a faint smirk, and Isabela made a study of the small lines and cracks that the other woman's journey had weathered into her mouth .

"For letting me kill him," Isabela clarified, sounding as pleased as a mabari working at a joint of mutton. "That felt  _good_ , Beth."

The smirk faded into a tense frown. "If only we could've got that other bastard, the one that caught you in the first place…"

Isabela's gloved hand slipped up Bethany's shoulder to the base of her neck, and with fingers more nimble than they had any right to be, she undid the thong that kept the Champion's gorgeous hair tied back away from her face. The strands fell about them like a curtain, the woman's frown all but disappearing in the dimmed moonlight. Isabela arched in one fluid motion, claiming those rough lips with a kiss that her fingers deepened by forking through the roots of Bethany's hair.

An instant of hesitation gave way as the Champion melted into the greedy woman's kiss, her sunshine-coated tongue vying with Isabela's as though the last twelve months hadn't even been a dream. The would-be pirate filled Bethany's mouth with a groaning purr, laced with longing and regret and quite a bit of remorse, but Bethany swallowed every drop of feeling and invited ever more. After a few moments, however, the woman's hand came to rest at the base of Isabela's neck and she pulled back a hair's breadth from the kiss. "You should take care, 'Bela," Bethany admonished. "I don't want to have to blind the crew in a fit of jealousy…"

The Champion's smile had a hard edge to it, as though she wouldn't mind any such thing, but Isabela caught onto the implication of Bethany's objection...that she had some claim on the pirate, that she cared what other people thought of them, what other people saw. It should have felt cloying; it should have driven an icicle into her guts. But as she looked at those honey-coloured eyes, glittering in the low light just above her own, Isabela felt warm. For the first time, possibly in her life, she felt  _safe_. "Stay with me?" She whispered against Bethany's cheek, fighting the lump rising up in her throat. "All the way?"

Bethany shifted, moving the pile of ropes they'd turned into a bed right on the deck, until her face was mostly the right way up. "Always," the Champion promised, her arms pulling the would-be pirate more firmly against her. "As long as you'll have me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta-reader, buttercup23, and everyone who's reading along!


	50. Legacies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver's family is beginning to gain some stability after the events of the Qunari invasion and his mother's death, but an old friend shows up with an offer that could threaten to upend the balance in the warrior's life.

It was surprising how quickly twenty months could pass, and how much could change in that time. Not quite two years before, Kirkwall had nearly been razed to the cliffside upon which it had been built; the city had been saved, and had gained a Champion, on the seventeenth night of August in the thirty-fourth year of the Dragon Age. Bethany herself had lost a companion, and had nearly lost her very life, like so many of Kirkwall's citizens, those of low birth and high alike. Yet, despite the anguish and the turmoil of that frightening night, Carver Hawke counted it as one of the best of his own life, even though he hadn't lifted his sword during the Qunari attack on the place he'd claimed as a home.

For, on that night, Merrill had given birth to a beautiful little girl with onyx-black hair and sea-coloured eyes . Even now, one day they would look startlingly blue, and the next they'd seem a deeper green than any forest canopy could ever achieve. And, though he'd never have thought he were capable of it, Carver loved his child and her mother more than anything else in the whole of the world.

The three of them were in the kitchen, attempting to break their fasts. Or, rather, Merrill and Carver were trying to get Paqua to eat a bowl of porridge without up-ending it all over the floo r, which still happened quite regularly. With a half-amused sigh, Carver jostled the girl on his knee , tentatively holding the wooden spoon out for her to take. "Aren't you hungry, Paqua?" Maker knew that  _he_  certainly was, but he wouldn't eat until his daughter had gotten her fill.

"Want mamae," the girl cooed disagreeably, angling him a serious look from over her shoulder .

Carver smiled despite himself at hearing her call Merrill by the elvish term for  _mother_ , which Paqua had picked up without any prompting from either of them. "Mamae tried feeding you a minute ago," he reminded her, with his own glance to Merrill. "You almost covered her with your food." He would have laughed, but for the glare that the elven mage spared for him at that moment.

"Want mamae milk ," Paqua clarified, with near-infinite gravity.

Merrill weighed in with a sigh. "I'll feed you later today,  _da'lath_ ," she pleaded. "I promise. But you  _have_  to eat the porridge this morning." They were in the midst of Paqua's second great battle-the first had been fought over her teeth coming in. The screaming had sometimes woken Sandal, clear on the other side of the estate, then. But now Merrill was trying to slowly wean her, and Paqua did not care to engage in a fair fight.

The warrior should have been ready for it, but when his daughter took up the wooden spoon, he honestly thought that she'd surrendered. Instead he got a face full of warm porridge and a long exclamation of "No!" from the little soldier in his lap.

Instead of getting angry, though, Carver tried to make the best of the turn in his fortune. He took a firm grip onto the spoon to keep Paqua from repeating her barrage, but with his left hand, the man scooped a hearty measure of porridge from his cheek and beard, and he made a show of eating it with great relish. The oaten meal had crushed apples and a few spices from the far north, so he didn't have to pretend overmuch to enjoy the taste. "Mmm...now don't you want some, Paqua?" Against his better instincts, Carver dipped two of his fingers into the bowl and offered them up to the girl's lips. Just as he'd expected, she tried to bite, but her sharp front teeth had hardly pressed into his knuckles when the sweet and spice of the porridge hit her tongue. "There," the man exclaimed. "Was that really so bad?"

The child's protests were evidently no match for her hunger, for she deigned to eat the rest of her porridge in relative peace, with only a little help from her father to hold up her spoon once in awhile. He wondered how many more mornings he would have to suffer stinging fingertips until Paqua started eating whole foods of her own accord , but the relief and pride in Merrill's expression made the sacrifice more than worth the cost.

A few minutes after Merrill and Carver helped Paqua scrape the bottom of the bowl, a soft knock sounded against the kitchen's open doorway. "Pardon for the interruption, messeres," Bodahn effused in his fancy merchant-caste manner . "But there is a gentleman in the foyer who claims to be an acquaintance of Messere Hawke, and your father."

Carver arched a brow at the dwarf, after sharing a suspicious glance with Merrill. Without exchanging a word, he slipped Paqua off of his lap, and her mother cradled the girl in her arms as she stood. "Who'd he say he was?" The warrior inquired, taking to his own feet. He felt foolish for leaving his sword in the estate's entrance, but he could at least grab a kitchen knife, if he didn't like the steward's answer.

"He claims to be Serah Tobrius , and he mentioned your father and mother by name, as sure as stone." The dwarf tugged at his braided beard a bit anxiously, and Carver noticed a few strands of grey beneath a few of the sand-colored strands. "Should I send him away?"

The name took a moment to hit Carver, but when it did, he breathed a small sigh of relief. "That won't be necessary, Bodahn," he allowed, and then he turned to Merrill. "Could you…?" The elf nodded once, and she brushed past the dwarf, retreating up the stairs to the estate's second level and distracting Paqua with random observations as she went. The warrior let out a long breath, his heart caught between the joy of his family and the ever-present need to protect them. "I'll see him in the sitting room," the man announced, and he let Bodahn get a decent head start to make the necessary gestures of obsequience.

Carver cleaned his face and shirt a bit more thoroughly and then moved to the estate's main room; he stood before the fireplace, doing his best to look well-settled, when the older man was shown in. He looked much the same as he had years before, from the exotic cowl and robes he wore to the barely-disguised walking stick that he couched over his shoulder. "Serah Hawke," Tobrius called in greeting. "I warned you that we would meet again." He didn't smile, precisely, but an amused light danced in the mage's eyes. "I understand congratulations are in order?"

Suspicion tickled the back of the warrior's mind, but he worked to keep it hidden. "That depends on what you think deserves to be congratulated," he pointed out, reasonably enough.

The other man's lips finally curved. "I would have thought that was obvious," he allowed, and then gave off a shrug. "Your sister has achieved greatness, and you have secured your family far better than Malcolm could have hoped."

Carver's suspicion ebbed, replaced by something far darker. Not resentment, certainly.. .he would have envied Bethany her prominence and power, he might have even hated her for it at one point in his life. But he wasn't a selfish boy any longer, and he'd had to lose more than he cared to think about to let that part of himself go . "We still couldn't save Mother," he replied, grimacing slightly. "But...thank you. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Tobrius dipped his head at the news of Leandra's death, but it lifted nearly immediately. "I do not think so, my friend," he answered. "I believe that I can do a great service to you, however. Have you kept up your lessons?"

A creak from a deliberate bootstep sounded at the bottom of the stairs, and Carver turned to see Isabela in mid-strut, looking as full of herself as he'd ever seen her. "What's all this about lessons? Trying to get the little halla a tutor already?"

The warrior's eyes narrowed. "For someone who doesn't claim to live here," he began, intent on keeping her from any more mention of his daughter around a stranger, "you sure as hell wake up under my roof often enough ."

Isabela planted her fist firmly against a hip. "You assume I've slept, swordboy ."

The mage cleared his throat, evidently as disturbed by the interruption as Carver felt. "Young Messere Hawke and I were discussing a...private matter, madame…?"

"You're that mage friend of Malcolm's, aren't you?" Isabela ventured, sidestepping the implicit request of her name with her customary nimbleness. "Tobias?"

Another voice came from midway up the stairwell. "Tobrius," Bethany corrected; she, at least, sounded like she'd just woken up. "Anything you have to tell Carver, you can say in front of me." She came to rest beside the other woman, leaving it unsaid that Isabela would remain, as well . A moment later, Barcus raced down the steps after his mistress, and he sniffed enthusiastically at the older man's hand.

"I see that at least one Hawke remembers me," Tobrius exclaimed, happily patting the mabari right between his ears. "It is good to see you still afoot, my friend." The dog gave a congenial bark in return, and moved to sit in front of the two women who'd preceded him.

Carver heaved a sigh, shaking his head with a smile. "They know already," he informed the Tevinter mage. "What's this visit about?"

Tobrius' skepticism melted away by degrees as he regarded Bethany, and he offered her a quick bow. "Of course, Champion," he conceded. "To you, Carver, I repeat the question. Have you maintained your study of the art we sewed into your flesh with dragon's blood?"

The warrior's brow drew down and he extended his arm, gruffly tugging up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a forearm cris-crossed with fine scars. "I've had practice, and practical experience, serah. It's...not like you thought it would be." His stomach still twisted uneasily when he considered the implications of his use of blood magic, but by now it was a distant concern. "I can draw up blood in my enemies and boil it in their veins, but I can't do anything fancier than that." Maker knew he'd tried, at least before Paqua had come along.

The Tevinter mage looked from brother to sister and back again, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "You cast aside that talent as though it were a mere trifle," the man observed, "when in truth it makes you nigh unto invincible on the battlefield. And yet," he went on, turning his attention to the low-burning flames of the fire. "And yet…" The fire sputtered to greater life, and then guttered out suddenly. "I still believe you may command the elements, and so much more, Carver Hawke."

Carver couldn't keep the derision from his snort. "How do you imagine that? Have you got any more dragons handy?"

The man's sharp gaze nearly took the young warrior aback. "As it happens," Tobrius let on, "I have recently been tasked with disposing of one, just without the walls of this fair city ." He took a step closer to Carver, eagerness etched into his face. "You will recall the circumstances of our initial ritual?"

The warrior swallowed, resisting the urge to step back. "Right," he ventured. "There was a mine infested with dragonlings, and one bigger one."

"An adolescent, if you've forgotten," the mage reminded him. "The very same mine has again been closed to business...though now, Messere Hawke, our fortune is infinitely greater." He paused, sparing a look to Bethany and Isabela, who stood at rapt attention. "For I have witnessed the mine's terror, and it takes the form of a High Dragon."

Tobrius seemed far more pleased, and far less terrified, by that prospect than Carver suspected any sane man should be . "And you want me to go kill it," he said, his tone even. "Just because you're…what, curious about a theory?"

The mage stopped short, as though he hadn't considered that Carver might be at all reluctant. "And you are not, Messere Hawke? You do not thirst for the skills of your father? Of your sister?"

Carver's lips parted, ready to answer  _Of course_ and  _Not at all_  both at once, but his throat caught. He'd spent his whole life surrounded by magic...and he'd even managed to use it himself, in his own way, in the last few years. "I have responsibilities," he said aloud, buying himself time to think. "Running full-tilt at a High Dragon won't exactly help me fulfill them."

A rum-soaked laugh sounded beside him. "Look at the little eyas, all grown up," Isabela mocked. "Soon he'll be telling us that he's applying to a job at the seneschal's office."

"'Bela," Bethany warned, before she took a step closer, until she made an equal-sided triangle with her brother and the other mage. "Do you really think you can do it, Tobrius?" She breathed, her brow quirking halfway between incredulity and interest. "Bridge the gap between magic and mundane with dragon's blood?"

The Tevinter mage nodded firmly. "I am almost positive, given the success of our previous attempt," he insisted. "If it is risk you worry about, you should bring the Champion and your companion," he told Carver, gesturing to the sharp-tongued Rivaini.

"I don't think so," Isabela scoffed. "Slaying a dragon doesn't sound like much fun, and while I'm not averse to a little bit of blood play, I draw the line at drinking it. You can count me out." Her expression grew more serious. "But if you're going to do it, Carver, you should take Merrill along. She's been needing to get out of the house, and a blood magic ritual sounds like something she'd enjoy."

Carver wasn't quite sure how to respond to that, or to the presumption of the two mages next to him, but he felt just a bit angry that they seemed to be making the decision without him. "I haven't even decided if I'm going or not," he objected , and his voice sounded petulant even to his own ears. After a steadying breath, he looked from Tobrius to his sister. "You remember what Father said," he ventured. "Back in that Grey Warden prison, in the mountains?"

He could see at once that she did, just as he saw that she had none of the doubts that had haunted her when the spectre of their father had told the aether that he  _wished this magic on no-one_. "Father didn't know everything," Bethany replied, softly. "And he would have loved you just the same if you'd been born a mage, and me a mundane."

The warrior could feel the ground falling away beneath his feet, and he recalled the long years of envy he'd suffered against his sisters' domination of their father's attention. That was too petty a reason to take up Tobrius' offer. But Carver glanced up over his shoulder, to the bannister that Merrill had rested against so often. She wasn't there to smile at him, but she was close, and she held his heart in so many ways that he knew the wrong decision now could only hurt the both of them. "Alright," he conceded at last, turning to his sister and his father's friend. "Let's go slay us a dragon." Then the warrior looked sharply at Isabela. "I don't think the dwarf would forgive any of us if we did this without him…"

"You go fetch your elf and I'll make sure Varric meets you at the Hightown Market gate," the pirate settled. Her eyes shot to Bethany, and a look of concern flickered across her face, so brief that Carver might have just imagined it. "I'll see you when I see you," was all she said, but she didn't turn away until Bethany gave her a nod .

Carver slid through the gap left by Isabela's departure, his footsteps far more certain than he thought they should be as they led him up the steps to the room he shared with his family. "I think it will be exciting," Merrill told him as soon as he'd crossed the doorway; it might have disturbed him, but he'd learnt long ago that the elf could hear whispers through a wall. She was already halfway into the white-enameled armour set that he'd given her, which she hadn't had cause to wear since Paqua had grown heavy within her. "Of course, I hope this Tobrius fellow doesn't mind sharing his secrets with me…"

"He won't," Carver pronounced. "Not unless he wants me drinking  _his_  blood." He spoke softly, since Paqua was sleeping in her little bed, but he shared the amused smirk that Merrill spared him. Then he became serious. "It's...been awhile since either of us have done more than kill a few raiders at night," he pointed out. "Are you sure you're ready to do this?" Even as he questioned her, the warrior moved to help Merrill strap the back and chest plates together over her glittering chainmail.

The Dalish elf brushed her forehead along his jaw and shrugged her shoulders, adjusting the fit. "I've still been practicing in the cellars, you know," she reminded him. "Are you going to put on any proper armour, yourself?"

Carver shrugged. "All the better for the dragonspit to cook me in," he mused, stripping out of the long-sleeved shirt and thin trousers for his old padded undershirt and thick leggings. He was still nervous, as he and Merrill tasked Orana and Meraxa with watching over their daughter. Meraxa was the last remnant of Isabela's slave retinue which Bethany had rescued from the Tevinter magister's burning villa, and in the months since the Champion's return to Kirkwall, she had seen the other seven elves placed in decent households as proper servants. She still visited them occasionally, to make sure they hadn't been mistreated or even sold back to Tevinter slavers. But Meraxa had wanted to stay on in the Champion's service, and she and Orana worked together to keep the house as clean and well-ordered as it had ever been.

With that settled, he followed Merrill back down the steps and into the mansion's entryway, where Bethany and Tobrius waited. His sister had her swordbelt cinched around her waist, but he felt somewhat vindicated that she hadn't donned her customary armour, either . The Tevinter mage merely gave Merrill a crisp nod and waited as Carver levered his sword across his shoulders, then Tobrius took the lead out of the estate.

Varric and Bianca were waiting for them by the interior gate. "Rivaini says we're off to do some lizard-hunting," he said, before he whistled at Merrill. "Been awhile since you've gotten dressed up all fancy. Gonna put Choir Boy to shame ." He accepted the Dalish elf's chattering gratitude with an easy smile, and gestured for the party to keep moving. "Where are we headed, anyhow? The mountains?"

"Sort of," Bethany replied, before her brother or anyone else could answer. "It's made a lair in the Bone Pit, and it's been breeding."

The dwarf gruffed a laugh. " _Oh sure_ ," he cooed, his voice going half an octave higher. " _Carver and Beth have another one of their adventures lined up. You won't want to miss it_." He rolled his eyes, but he couldn't quite hide the indulgent twist to his lips. "How come nothing normal ever happens to us, Hawke?"

"In my experience," Tobrius cut in, from the front of the pack, "the name of Hawke tends to subvert one's chances for normalcy quite greatly, no matter the context."

The party continued chattering idly all the way out to the mines. Merrill and Bethany and Varric even managed to banter quite candidly while they all dodged and rolled and fired bolts of magic and wood at the High Dragon, while Carver and Tobrius and Barcus took the fight to its offspring. And for the span of a few hours, Carver forgot that he was a grown man with a child and a house; he forgot that he was a deserter and a failed mercenary; he forgot that his sister had been taken from him by their own desire to escape the hand fate had dealt, and that she would never be the same innocent girl he'd loved and hated so intensely in Ferelden. He was too busy working his sword to save his life, and dancing around balls of flame to spare his flesh, and exulting in the joy of the fight that he hadn't really indulged in for far too long.

The High Dragon was massive but young, according to Tobrius, certainly less than a century old. As such, she made the mistake of coming down from its inaccessible perch a few times too often, especially once the drakes and dragonlings had all been dispatched, and by the onset of evening, she lay dead upon the ground. Carver's veins felt tight, even beneath the ache in his muscles, as he looked upon the great beast's body while Merrill and Bethany and Tobrius went to work gathering samples of blood from different organs. It was nearly full dark by the time they'd tapped the heart, liver, and brain, each of paramount significance according to the Tevinter mage. He mixed lyrium dust and other ingredients he didn't bother to name into his enormous cup, and he invited the Champion and the Dalish elf to infuse the mixture with touches of their own magic.

Varric cocked a brow at Carver when Tobrius offered the chalice to him. "You sure about this, Junior?"

The tight feeling in his veins made Carver's fingers seize around the stem of the cup, but there was a subtle whisper in the air, and he held the goblet as steadily as a stone table would have done. "Not at all," the warrior admitted, glancing to his sister. She looked a bit apprehensive, but Merrill gave him an encouraging nod. "Do I just...drink it?"

Tobrius inclined his head. "Drink to your heart's content, Messere Hawke," he instructed. "If there is any left over, your dwarven companion is welcome-"

"Thanks," the dwarf butted in, "but no thanks, whiskers ."

The mage's nickname apparently amused him, for Tobrius smiled. "Very well. I am certain the Champion and your elven companion might find use for the dregs. Now, if you please...?"

Carver stalled with a steadying breath, holding the cup closer with both hands. Despite the darkness quickly descending around them, the liquid in the cup positively  _sang_ with blackness, so thick that he could see his reflection near-perfectly in the feeble light of the first few starts to show themselves . "Here goes."

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, if indeed he'd expected anything at all as he lifted the chalice to his lips, but as soon as the first drop of dragon's blood hit his tongue, Carver's ears filled with the most beautiful chorus he'd ever heard. The first mouthful seared the insides of his cheeks and boiled his tongue with pure fire, hotter than any northern dish, but instead of lancing him with agony, the sensation passed through his body as though it were happening to someone else. When he looked into the upturned cup, Carver witnessed the contents change from the black of jet to a deep, rich gold, and he couldn't have stopped himself from swallowing if Varric had kicked him in the shins. The first cup of dragon's blood he'd drunk, years before, had only given the warrior a fraction of the euphoria he felt as the liquid poured into his throat .

The goblet tipped ever higher, Carver's back arching to accommodate, until not a single drop of blood was left within the simple silver. Still the warrior kept leaning, kept arching and swallowing, unable to keep himself from falling back on the sand and stones that had been the dragon's home. His insides felt like they were being melted away by the golden fire as it expanded outward from his chest and belly, spilling into his limbs, filling his entire body with an irresistible heat. Gold even tinged the edges of his vision, and though his lungs emptied violently, the gentle song was not interrupted by the scream that must have sounded.

Gold turned to blistering white, and the white in Carver's eyesight shrank to a single star-point above him. He had no idea how long he lay upon the ground, how long the sweet song buffeted him, but as slowly as a wave on the Wounded Coast, the heat within him began to fade. It didn't disappear, though, even as the sight returned to his eyes and the sounds of his own ragged breathing caught in his ears. Tobrius was nowhere to be found, but Merrill was there, and Bethany, and Varric. The dwarf looked more worried than either of the mages, but the elf and the Champion still seemed relieved when Carver's head tilted up.

"I knew you'd be alright," Merrill breathed, kneeling beside him. "How are you feeling, Carver?"

The warrior lifted a hand to brush his knuckles along her tattooed cheek, but before his knuckles made contact with her flesh, he felt… _something_  tickle over his skin. Something indescribably, inexplicably familiar, even though he'd never sensed its like before. "Cast a spell," he rasped, keeling his fingers a hair's breadth from her face. "Please." When she sent a small hex at a nearby boulder, Carver felt the buildup of tension beneath his own skin, and the release of her mana tugged at his chest. Finally he cupped Merrill's cheek, his own face tingling with the force of his grin. "I...think it worked."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to my excellent beta-reader, buttercup23, for all of the support! Only ten more chapters to go!


	51. High Stakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sharpest Blade in Llomerryn is back in Kirkwall, but she isn't quite out of rough seas yet.

Bethany's footfalls were heavy as they carried her up the steps to Hightown, her fingers tingling with the power that she'd had to unleash. The Hanged Man was still strewn with Tevinter corpses, including the half-shattered body of Danarius, the magister lord who'd come at long last to lay claim to Fenris. He'd brought a small army and a few apprentices with him for the task, along with Fenris' long-lost sister, Varania. While the elven woman had led her brother into the trap, she hadn't participated in the fighting directly, which helped Bethany to counsel Fenris against killing her .

But Bethany was exhausted; she and her mabari had stood with Fenris and Varric against the Tevinter cohort, which had left it up to her to counter the enemies' magical attacks and return a few of her own. It was only now that she was almost to her estate that Bethany grew suspicious at Isabela's absence from the tavern. In fact, it had been Bethany's hope to find the wayward pirate there when she'd agreed to escort Fenris in the first place. She knew that Isabela could take care of herself again, though...or she hoped so, at least. In any case, as Bethany entered the mansion that had become her home, she looked forward to falling into the bed in her windowless room and sleeping for a day and a half, possibly even in her bloodstained armour.

Despite her best intentions, Bethany stopped short at the threshold of the estate's sitting room doorway, her eyes fixing on the curved back of the very pirate she'd been concerned about a few moments before. The mage's breath caught in her throat as she watched Isabela, bent over the long writing desk, no doubt scribbling a crude limerick or a dirty sketch-Bethany had found more than a few sheafs of fine vellum put to such use in the last few months-and she couldn't help the grin that spread over her face, mirroring the tingling warmth that coiled deep within her chest at the sight of the other woman. Bethany took a step forward, intent on sneaking up behind the Rivaini rogue and testing her reflexes, but her dog's happy bark robbed her of the surprise, and the mage had to work to school her expression before Isabela whirled around.

The pirate's own face spasmed for just an instant, but her lips settled into a self-satisfied smirk, familiar and indulgent and distant at the same time . "I was wondering when you'd come waltzing back here," she purred, slinking closer and throwing her arms around Bethany's shoulders. The Champion's hands found Isabela's hips out of habit, her thumbs pressing into the bones undergirding the other woman's corset, but before Bethany could steal a kiss, Isabela tilted her head back. "I think-"

Unable to resist, or simply unwilling to, the Champion tugged Isabela closer and fastened her lips high on the other woman's neck, just beneath her jaw. A hint of blood smeared from Bethany's cheek, giving the pirate's salted cinnamon flesh a coppery tinge. She was rewarded with a throaty groan, and the feel of Isabela's fingers forking into the roots of her hair.

Just as Bethany's armoured boot planted in between the pirate's feet, Isabela rediscovered her voice, even as she leaned greedily into the Champion's attentions. "I think you're going to scare Barcus," she warned, her husky tone enough to tell Bethany that she couldn't care less. A gasp cut her off when Bethany levered her backward into the solid wall beside the fireplace, and the Champion growled into Isabela's neck as the pirate's legs settled about her waist. "Much as I want to encourage your eagerness," the pirate panted, her fingers tugging more insistently at Bethany's hair, "I  _did_  have something else to talk about, you know."

It was Bethany's turn to groan, her earlier tiredness all but forgotten in the heady rush of hunger and need that the other woman's presence evoked. She relented at least partially, however, pinning Isabela's torso more firmly against the wall with her own even as she drew her head back. "Sorry," the Champion panted. "Had to play the hero again," she explained, licking a bit of cinnamon from her lips. "The Hanged Man's not going to be the same for awhile, I expect."

Isabela cocked a brow at her, hitching herself another inch up the wall to make herself just slightly taller than Bethany. The motion just happened to bring the pirate's core over the Champion's thick belt buckle, which could only have been a coincidence . "I think Corff has more experience getting rid of bodies than you give him credit for," she mused, her eyes dancing. "I trust they deserved it…?"

Bethany's brow drew down as she nodded. "Slavers," she confirmed. "But I don't think Fenris needs to worry about going back to the Imperium any time soon. I guess I'm making a habit of saving my friends from magisters." She spoke the words lightly, in jest, but the shadow that passed over Isabela's features stole the Champion's breath. "Hey," she called, freeing her unarmoured left hand to cup the pirate's face. "You don't owe me anything," the woman insisted, not for the first time since Isabela's rescue the previous year. Her wayward thumb played over the pirate's lower lip, rubbing a slow circle around the stud of gold Isabela wore once again. "Now what did you come to see me about, if not to tempt me so?"

The pirate took a long moment to answer, her eyes half-lidding as she leaned into Bethany's caresses. "Oh, tempting is definitely on the manifest," Isabela insisted, her tongue snaking out to slither up the underside of the Champion's thumb to her palm. "But I've finally got some good news," she went on, rather than drawing the digit into her mouth as Bethany had been half-hoping she might. The pirate's eyes fixed Bethany with a hard stare, a different kind of hunger suffusing her features. "Velasco's here ."

The Champion did not gasp, precisely, but her lungs tingled with the swiftness of her intake of breath. "That means Castillon can't be too far away," she ventured. In the last few months, she and the pirate had opened up to one another, at least by a few degrees... enough for Bethany to know who had hunted Isabela, and why. " So they're still after you?"

"I killed the man they sold me to," Isabela boasted, smirking when Bethany's eyes narrowed. "I might've had a little help, but still...I don't think Castillon will stop unless I'm dead, now. He might even be worried about me coming after him," she purred, tilting her head forward until her bandana brushed across Bethany's forehead. " As though I'd ever dream of such a petty thing as revenge."

Bethany fought the urge to roll her eyes, but she sighed, her lips faintly buzzing with the feel of the pirate's breath tickling over them. "I don't suppose you want to disappear into my bedroom until they go away?"

Isabela's dark chuckle might have broken her heart, if Bethany hadn't already felt the thirst for her own vengeance and seen it served by her own hands more than once. "I don't suppose I do, Sunshine," she affirmed, arching up to brush a kiss over the bridge of Bethany's nose. "I have a plan to get to him, but...you might not like it."

The Champion had closed her eyes as she leaned into her lover's feather-light kiss, and she kept them shut tight as Isabela pressed on. "Let's hear it, then," she allowed, doing her best to ignore the cold stone settling at the bottom of her stomach. But the other woman didn't speak until Bethany's eyes had fluttered open, and when they did so, the Champion saw an almost foreign earnestness in Isabela's expression.

"I want you to take me to Velasco," she breathed, hardly audible over the crackle of the nearby fire. "Let him think he's taking me prisoner, and then follow us back to whatever bilge Castillon's hiding in."

Bethany's throat felt as dry as the desert outside of Perivantium, where she'd played at being a Grey Warden beside Athadra once more. "You were right," she admitted. "I don't much like that scheme." And yet she could see at once how much trust Isabela was placing in her, and she couldn't suppress the slight upturn at the corners of her mouth. "But...if it means that much to you," the Champion conceded, "I'll play along, for a little while." A sudden tension gripped her chest, and Bethany buried her head in the other woman's neck, her own throat thickening. "I'm not letting you go again," she vowed, though her tone was so low that she thought-or even hoped-that the pirate couldn't have heard that last exclamation.

The only answer Isabela had was to bless Bethany's head with another kiss, and after a moment she gave a low, frustrated growl before unhooking her legs from the Champion's waist. "There  _will_  be more wall-pushing," the pirate demanded as she found her feet and moved to extricate herself from her captive position. "We're definitely not finished with you," she told the spot that her back had just vacated.

With a breathy laugh, Bethany pressed her palm flat against the finely-paneled wood and scorched a handprint into it. "There," she declared, smirking at her companion. "Now we'll know just where to pick up where we left off." Isabela seemed far too pleased with the gesture, and her smile almost made up for the doubts and concerns coursing through the back of Bethany's mind. "Where's Velasco now, do you think?"

"I know exactly where the oyster-licking Antivan is," the pirate assured her. "Where does any well-to-do sailor go the minute they arrive in Kirkwall, if they know what's good for them?"

Bethany's brows knitted as she considered. "...The viscount's office? To grease the right palms?" Even before she'd finished, the Champion could tell by Isabela's insufferably smug face that she'd guessed incorrectly.

"Oh, he's getting something greased, alright," Isabela purred .

The Champion felt her cheeks colouring, just slightly, but before she could answer, Merrill's voice rang out from across the room. "You mean the Blooming Rose, don't you?" She looked inordinately proud of herself at Isabela's chuckling confirmation, her armour gleaming as she stepped closer to the conspiring pair. "Can I come along? I promise I won't say anything to ruin the surprise !"

The look on the Dalish elf's tattooed face was so eager and innocent that Bethany could almost forget just how deadly the other mage was, though she'd proven her competence only too recently in the Bone Pit, both during the fight with the High Dragon and during Carver's recovery from the ritual. And the Champion's limbs still ached, no matter how much her lust had masked the exhaustion she'd earned earlier. "I think that's a fine idea," Bethany opined with a glance to her mundane companion.

Isabela shrugged. "It's been awhile since we've killed anything together," she reasoned. "It'll be fun!"

Merrill's grin was worth almost any price, but Bethany still had a concern. "Do you think Carver would like to join us?" She assumed that the elf had been listening to her conversation with the pirate, but she didn't know how much Merrill had shared with the other Hawke. "Will he want to show us all what he can do?"

The elf's head tilted, her large eyes sweeping from Bethany to Isabela and back again. "He's had a long day of practice," she informed them. "Now he and Paqua are both resting...she really didn't like letting both of us out of the house without her," Merrill sighed, though she couldn't keep the little grin from her lips. "I don't think he'll be too mad if we go out and have a little fun of our own ."

"Sounds like a plan, then," Isabela sing-songed, strutting toward the door. "Bodahn," she called, and the steward appeared in the doorway as though from thin air. "If Carver asks, let him know that I've taken his sister and his lover to a whorehouse. We should be back before morning, but don't wait up for us."

Merrill and Bethany both snickered, especially when the dwarf bowed low and vowed to relay the pirate's words with the utmost fidelity. Bethany cautioned Barcus to stay behind, using her brother and niece as an excuse when he yapped argumentatively. And then the three women were off, seeming little more than wealthy, well-armed carousers, strutting through Hightown on a late spring evening. There weren't even bandits to interrupt their march to the Rose. Isabela greeted several of the establishment's attendants and staff by name, and Bethany had to fight back a mixture of jealousy and pride when more than a few of the building's patrons sought to proposition the pirate, only to have her sharp tongue cut them down to size. Only once they'd reached the Rose's upper floor did Isabela hesitate, throwing an uncertain glance at Bethany and Merrill. "You'd better hide," she told the elf, her tone somewhat apologetic. "We can't have you waving at me and making Velasco suspicious."

Merrill's ears drooped slightly, but Bethany stepped in. "Just stand in the corner over there," she offered with a tilt of her head. "Once you see Isabela walk by, I'll come find you, and we'll go after her together, alright?" That seemed to settle the elf's qualms, and she dutifully retreated. Bethany took a steadying breath, turning back to Isabela. "Are you ready?"

The pirate bit her lip. "I think so," she managed, after a moment's pause. "Now, this  _needs_  to be convincing," Isabela stressed. "You'll need to get creative. Call me names-even hit me!"

The Champion's brows knitted, the thought of anyone hitting the other woman causing her hands to slip closer to the swords at her hips. "I'm...not sure I can pull this off," she warned her companion.

Isabela's face grew harder again. "Stick with it," she insisted, "no matter what I do. Velasco's a clever son of a bitch; if you waver, he'll notice." Then she favoured Bethany with a cocky smirk. "And besides...haven't you ever wanted to slap me? Just a little?" Bethany had to hide her snickering behind her hands, so Isabela forged ahead. "Whatever you do, just make sure he takes me to Castillon. I'll do my best to leave a trail, and I'll make enough noise that Merrill can help you track us. Do you understand?"

Despite her uncertainty, despite the subtle whisper that urged her to show Velasco his own intestines at the first sight of the man, Bethany forced herself to nod. "I will do it," she vowed.

The relief in the pirate's eyes was almost too much to ignore. "Good," she affirmed, before turning away. "It'll be better if you lead on."

Bethany nodded, stepping closer to the door and taking hold of Isabela's wrist with her left hand; she didn't have to delve too deeply to find a wellspring of rage, which only bubbled up closer to the surface when her firm knock went unanswered. With a grunt, the Champion summoned a ball of arcane energy and blasted the door off of its hinges before stepping across the threshold.

Within, a dark-haired man had a half-dressed elf pinned up against a wall, though the girl seemed far less enthusiastic than Isabela had, back at Bethany's estate. The shock of the intrusion gave her a chance to duck beneath the man's arm, and though he twisted, he wasn't quite fast enough to catch her. "Get back here, you-"

Bethany took another step forward, her grip growing tighter around the pirate's forearm. "Let her go," she scoffed, her face twisting in a grimace. "I think I've got something more to your taste right here...Velasco, is it?"

The foreign man's dark eyes glinted as he considered the intruder, clearly unaware of her high standing within the city. "Unless you're offering to take the skittish bitch's place," he barked in an Antivan accent, "I'm not interested…"

"I think Castillon will be," Bethany insisted, taking a single sidestep, so that her would-be captive came into full view. "Consider this a present for him."

The man, Velasco, seemed momentarily taken aback, but Isabela filled the silence brilliantly. "A present for... _what?!_ " And then she yanked hard at Bethany's grip, her free hand already reaching back to grab at one of her daggers.

Bethany reacted with instincts developed over years of combat; she spun quickly, planting her boot behind Isabela's heel and clapping her armoured hand around the pirate's throat. In a heartbeat the other woman was on the floor, sprawled across the ruined door, with the tip of Bethany's right-hand sword digging into her sternum. "I'm the Champion of Kirkwall," she announced to the room, though her honey-coloured eyes never wavered from Isabela's face. "I have my reputation to consider. I'm sure someone of your...background...can respect that. "

The chill in her tone nearly broke when she saw the naked fear stealing across the supine woman's eyes. "I...thought I could  _trust you_ ," Isabela choked out, and those last two words kept Bethany from turning her blade on Velasco and the two guards that had emerged from opposite corners of the room.

"You remember when I had to fight the Arishok," the Champion mused, her head tilting, "and you ran away?" She didn't have to fake the bitter edge that entered her voice, then. "This is like that...only funnier ." Bethany looked from one helmeted thug to the other, nodding them closer. The men seemed to grasp her meaning at once, for they moved to secure their new prisoner, and Bethany only stepped back once Isabela's arms were firmly in their grasp.

Velasco chuckled from behind and to her left, just out of Bethany's reach, and she forced herself to sheathe her magical blade. "Castillon will be pleased," the man effused, grinning as though he couldn't believe his luck. "He's been looking for Isabela for some time, and he knows just how slippery she can be. Here," he said, reaching for a pouch on his hip. "Consider this a token of our appreciation, Champion." He sneered at the pirate, who was struggling against her guards and spitting curses at Bethany. "It's more than she is worth."

Though nothing could have pleased her more than to take the man's coins and force them down his throat, she took the proffered purse with a short nod of acknowledgement, her stomach roiling but her face as smooth as she could make it. Velasco seemed to take her acceptance of the gift at face value, and Bethany couldn't help but think that this was the same coin he'd have given the Rose for the elven girl's services, had she not interfered; she made a mental note to return it to them, on account of the damage to the door if nothing else, once this business was done .

After Velasco and his men had wrestled Isabela out of the room and down the stairs, Bethany emerged to find Merrill staring after the strangers, wide-eyed and concentrating. "We'd best be quick," she breathed. "They're nearly at the door!"

The Champion nodded once more, far more emphatically this time, and a few moments later the two mages were out in Hightown once more. True to her word, Isabela had managed to drop a piece of jewellery just outside the Blooming Rose, and that was enough to set her pursuers onto her trail. Merrill soon fixed her ears on the pirate's near-constant hisses and curses, and her eyes picked up signs that even Bethany would have skipped over as they tracked through Hightown and eventually to one of the stairways that led to a more affluent section of the city's docks. Once there, the trail threatened to go cold, but Merrill picked up on a few muffled voices from behind an unguarded door. Bethany was able to force it far more subtly than she'd broken through the door in the Rose, and she and Merrill crept out onto a balcony overlooking a private wharf, where Velasco stood lazily against a pole as Isabela paced in front of him like a caged panther.

Bethany was surprised to find the pirate's hands unbound and her daggers gleaming over her shoulders, but that only spoke to the Antivan's foolish hubris. As the Champion stepped closer, she heard his voice growling. "You're going to do whatever I want," he hissed through his teeth. "I  _own_  you."

Merrill gasped, but the noise must have been too small to draw the man's attention from so far below them. Bethany couldn't keep herself from stepping up to the edge of the balcony, surveying the scene; Velasco and his two guards had been joined by at least a dozen more armed men, some of whom looked to be shaking off the last remnants of sleep. In the distance, a two-masted ship sat high in the harbour's dark water, with the promise of even more enemies on board. The human mage shared a significant look with her elven compatriot, and Merrill only nodded.

From below, Isabela's chuckle erupted like a dolphin coming up for air. "You sure about that, Velasco?"

Just then, the Antivan's eyes flicked up to the balcony, and Bethany didn't bother to hide the grin that danced across her lips when she saw his fear. "You!" He exclaimed, pointing up at her. "I  _knew_  the bitch was up to something!" He looked around to his gathered men. "Kill them," he exhorted. "Kill them all!"

Isabela was already dancing, her twin daggers flashing in the moonlight that filtered in through the building's open side. From their superior perch, Bethany and Merrill rained spells down upon the throng of sailors and soldiers, and before long, great gouts of flame and sheafs of lightning had reduced the bastards' numbers by half. Bethany soon broke from her position and ran down to the main level to join the fray with her swords, while Merrill continued hexing and electrocuting anyone her magic could reach. Compared to fighting a magister and his apprentices, Velasco's scoundrels were hardly a challenge for the Champion and her companions .

When the last of the raiders had fallen, Bethany watched Isabela stalk over to Velasco's corpse, sparing it a kick. "For just a minute there I was worried," the pirate admitted, glancing back over her shoulder. "I'm...glad to see you've got my back, still."

The Champion wiped a smear of blood from her own cheek, eyeing the crimson splotches on Isabela's face. "Always," she insisted, and for just a moment it felt like the pair of them weren't separated by leaded glass.

But the moment passed in a heartbeat, and the pirate began moving to one of the building's recesses. "Velasco sent word to Castillon," she told the two mages. "He'll be here any minute, and I want to look around first, to see why he's in Kirkwall." Bethany nodded, even though the other woman couldn't see. She set to work searching Velasco's body for some sign, but after a few breaths, Isabela let out a triumphant call. "Hah!"

She'd picked a locked door, and she emerged from it with a ream of documents, looking pleased and disturbed at the same time. "So...Castillon's trying to expand his slaving business into the Free Marches," Isabela said lightly, though her tone couldn't mask the bitterness in her laugh. "Why am I not surprised?" She looked up to Bethany, her tongue working behind the gold stud in her lower lip. "Big Girl would find these papers  _very_  interesting…"

Bethany was mildly disturbed by the calculation that she saw in the pirate's eyes, and her lips parted, but before she could raise a question, a smooth Antivan voice rose from the shadows. "And Velasco told me you were all tied up, a present waiting to be opened," the stranger cooed in his clipped tones, stepping into the light. He appeared completely alone, and utterly unconcerned by the carnage around him. "I see he has paid for that little mistake. What a pretty smear he makes," the well-armed Antivan scoffed, sparing the dead man a cheeky grin. "Well played, Isabela," the man said, and the Champion was certain that he was Castillon, then. "Crossed and double-crossed. Just like the old days, no?"

When he spread his arms, ostensibly in a gesture of peace, Isabela snorted. "You're one to talk about double-crossing," she spat. "You knew my terms."

Castillon inclined his head. "Indeed," he conceded. "And we have both suffered for my folly, dearest Isabela. You have proven more resilient than I had ever imagined."

"You shouldn't have sent Delgado on a mission he couldn't handle," the Rivaini pirate chided him. "But if you really want to talk, why don't we talk about these?" She held up the rolled papers with one hand. "Slavery...in the free marches?" She snorted. "They're not going to like that."

The change in Castillon's expression was subtle, but obvious to anyone who'd ever been truly terrified. It almost made Bethany sick to her stomach, that a challenge to this man's business would make him as scared as she'd been in the Deep Roads the first three times she'd gone. He didn't seem to pay the Champion any attention, however, his eyes focused solely on Isabela. "Get to the point," he purred. "You wish to deal, we can deal."

The pirate let out a long breath, and Bethany heard her smirk in her voice, even if she couldn't quite see the other woman's face in the corner of her vision. "You give me your ship and your word that you'll leave me alone," Isabela offered. "And you can take these papers and go."

"What?" Bethany could hardly believe her ears...or, perhaps, she just didn't want to. "He trades people for money," she hissed, turning to look the other woman in the eye.  _Just like he traded you_ , she all but said, though something stilled her tongue. "Can you trust him?"

Isabela stood her ground, her brow furrowing. "He's a businessman," she explained, "and this is a business deal. He'll keep his word."

Castillon tried to speak, but Bethany overrode him. "If you want his ship so badly, can't we just kill him and take it? I'm pretty sure we've already slaughtered the crew."

The pirate raised her chin in a cavalier expression...all but her eyes, which told of her own fear. "You don't just  _kill a man and take his ship_ ," the Rivaini woman pleaded, though Bethany knew in her tone that she was lying, trying to cover up her true motivation. "That's crude and amateurish!" And that stare continued, begging for an understanding the Champion wasn't quite sure she was able to give. "How will he  _tell everyone_  how I bested him if he's dead?"

And then Bethany saw it-the outlaw, the pirate queen,  _needed_  Castillon's good word to go back to reaving on the open seas with impunity . Otherwise she would still have to worry about crossing paths with the Felicisima Armada whenever she peeked out of a port, no matter what kind of a ship and crew she managed to get. As much as it galled her, as much as she wanted to open Castillon's belly like he were a kipper, Bethany had come too far to keep that weight hanging over the other woman's head for a moment longer than necessary. "Alright," she conceded. "It's your call to make."

Isabela blinked, as though in surprise, and she had to hide her smile behind a smirk as she looked over to Castillon. "Your ship is gorgeous," she purred. "I want it."

The Antivan looked back and forth from Isabela to Bethany; he even spared Merrill a glance, though a brief one. "Give me the documents," he demanded smoothly, "and you can have the ship...and you will never see me again."

The Rivaini pirate's fist clenched tighter around the papers. "Swear it."

Castillon bent forward in a florid bow. "I swear it on my mother's grave," he exclaimed, as evenly as Bethany had heard him speak thus far. "Now," he went on, straightening up. "Give me the documents." Tentatively, Isabela stepped forward just enough that they both had to reach out for the hand-off. Once Castillon had the papers within his grasp, he searched them over for a moment before nodding crisply. "Our business is hereby concluded," he pronounced. "Forever. Be well, Isabela."

"Wait," Bethany breathed, and she felt three pairs of nervous eyes fix upon her. "Your business with Isabela is done, but I have one piece of advice to offer," she allowed, and she didn't continue until she was certain she had the man's full attention. "Take those plans and burn them. Because if I ever hear that you or any of your underlings are slaving in the Free Marches, I promise that you don't have enough ships' crews to stand between you and my response ." Castillon's face spasmed, but Bethany took a warning step forward, and she was satisfied to see him flinch. "Now begone, and keep your word, at the very least." The Antivan choked on a curse, but he turned away from them all the same, and he was gone in the space of a breath. Bethany was nearly knocked off balance by the force of Isabela's sudden embrace, but she found that she couldn't return it with the same enthusiasm. "He deserved to die, you know."

"And he will, someday," Isabela whispered, right against Bethany's neck. "But it doesn't have to be by your hand."

The Champion couldn't muster up an argument that felt better than the pirate's lips at her throat, though she still felt a bit of ice burning low in her chest. "So...now that you've got a ship," she ventured, "what are you planning to do?"

Isabela settled back, her arms still loosely wrapped around Bethany's shoulders. "It'll take months to take on a proper crew, even if some of my old sea dogs haven't died of the pox by now," she mused. "But I think I've already got someone special in mind for my first mate...though I hear she's got some high and mighty hero's complex, so she might keep me tied down for awhile." Her brown eyes shone in the low light, and she bit her lip. "That is...if...if she's interested…"

That ball of ice in Bethany's chest melted at the sight of Isabela's face, open and vulnerable for the first time in the Champion's memory. "She's interested," she breathed, and she was rewarded by an unvarnished grin that soon bled over to her own face.

"Oh, that's lovely," Merrill breathed from beside them. "But does that mean...you're going to go away?"

Isabela glanced toward the Dalish elf, chuckling, and when she turned back, Bethany was amazed to see that she hadn't thrown up any more walls or windows between them. Her eyes shined with silent laughter. "Well," she breathed, "it looks like we've found our first stow-away ."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta-reader, buttercup23, and to everyone who's reading along!


	52. Deep Roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill's sacrificed so much for her clan, and made so many mistakes, but now she's ready to begin living for herself and her new family.

The sun was just cresting into the window of the bedroom, but Merrill was already half into her clothes. Not the fancy, pretty armour that Carver had given her, but the earthy cloth and half-rusted chainmail that she had put together on her own, over years spent with her clan. She remembered receiving the steel and the fabric piecemeal from the Keeper, all except for the leaf-green scarf that the former First had scavenged from an abandoned cart in the Brecilian Forest. Now these simple clothes seemed their own kind of luxury, in this house of houses, where Merrill could dress and live as she liked.

And as the Dalish elf finished tying her scarf about her neck, she surveyed her large bed, filled as it was with the two people she loved more than she'd ever thought she could love anyone. Carver was awake, but all of his attention was taken with keeping Paqua asleep for just another few minutes, cradled in the crook of his arm. The sight was enough to bring a smile to her lips, and she wandered to the foot of the bed, even as a last flutter of nerves tickled her belly. "You look so perfect," Merrill breathed, mindful not to speak too loudly. " We could...stay. We don't have to do it, if you're not sure."

As slowly as ice melted, Carver shifted his blue eyes from the child tucked into his side to the Dalish elf, and the little wrinkle of concern between his eyebrows was undermined by his own smile. "We've already done too much for that Vael bloke to look at me kindly," he quipped. "As long as we're not going to go summoning demons, I don't see why we shouldn't do this ritual you told me about."

Merrill drew her bottom lip between her teeth and considered the man evenly; he was still attached to his stories of the Maker and Andraste, even if distantly, and she  _knew_  that he was more worried than he let on that he'd crossed a few too many lines to ever find their favour again. "Have you started walking in your dreams, yet?" It had been a month and a half since the warrior had taken his second draught of dragon's blood, and in that time, he'd come to weave magic about as well as Merrill could have done as an adolescent. Not just in manipulating his own and others' blood, either; Carver could spark a flame and cast a few minor hexes, and his lightning showed a bit of promise, too . When the man shook his head, the Dalish elf breathed a small sigh of relief. "You make sure to tell me if you do," she insisted. "I'm still not certain what that man did, but the spirits of the Beyond don't seem to think you're any different to any other mundanes. And as long as that's true, you shouldn't worry about them overly much ." Carver nodded, still unwilling to risk waking Paqua before the last minute, so Merrill went on. "I'm sure I've said it before, but I want to make sure you understand...once we do this, there's no undoing it. You'll always...have a part of me, just as I'll have a part of you, no matter what happens. It isn't like a Chantry ceremony…there's no annulment."

"I understand," Carver insisted, and there was no reservation in the trust and warmth he showed her. "Do  _you_  want to do it?" He asked, his head tilting to the side that their daughter snuggled. "Just because you read it in one of your old books doesn't mean we have to, if you don't think it's right for us."

The elf took a breath, casting another look about the rich bedroom. Her ears tuned to the subtle whispers from beyond their walls, of Orana and Meraxa setting about their duties, of Bodahn organising the library after she'd spent another night searching through her tomes, and of Bethany and Isabela...well, sometimes Merrill wished she could turn her hearing off, or at least dim it a bit, and she tried not to blush too furiously as she returned her attention to Carver . "I'm contented,  _letha'len_ ," she whispered, letting her fingers fall onto the man's blanket-covered shin. A shimmer of the power his flesh now held made her fingertips tingle. "But I know that my heart will always have you in it, and I am not afraid to let the gods know how close I hold you." She felt the sudden warmth of her cheeks settle across her face as she shared a grin with her love.

"Then it's settled," the warrior allowed, bringing his left hand up to ruffle through Paqua's coal-black hair. "Time to wake up, you little monster," he chuckled, and then he pressed a kiss to the girl's forehead as she yawned herself awake. "Papa and Mamae are going on a little trip," he informed his daughter. "Do you want to come with us?"

Even in the girl's shroud of sleep, the prospect of a journey out of the house caused her to nod enthusiastically. "I wanna come," she declared through a yawn. "Where we going?" Paqua blinked at her father, who in turn looked to Merrill.

The elf sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over Carver's abdomen and brushing her forehead against the crown of her daughter's head. "We'll be going far out of the city," Merrill let on. "So far you won't be able to smell it anymore!"

The girl giggled and sniffed. "I don't smell nothing!" She gave another exaggerated sniff and then made a face. "Nothing 'cept Papa's feets, anyhow ." Carver grunted an objection, but he soon shifted from between mother and child, moving to get himself ready.

Merrill pulled Paqua into her lap. "Auntie Betha will come with us," she told the girl. "Along with a few other friends of ours. We're going to do  _magic_." It still seemed a bit odd to talk so freely about the craft with others, even those as close to her as her daughter and her lover, but the excitement in the child's face was a sight to behold.

"Mamae," she called, "do you think I ever can magic? Like you and Auntie Beffa?"

It wasn't the first time the girl had posed the question, and Merrill gave her usual reply. "I don't know,  _da'lath_ ," she cooed. "You're still too young to know for certain. But...when you're older, I promise that I'll teach you all I know."  _Even if I have to slay another dragon_ , she thought, glancing across at Carver as he hopped into a pair of simple trousers. "Now, the place we're going is really far away," Merrill repeated, drawing her gaze back to Paqua. "If you want, Papa and I can carry you."

As expected, Paqua didn't seem to like that suggestion in the least. "Not a baby," she protested, looking offended. "I can walk the whol e way."

Carver peeked at them from the foot of the bed. "Then you'd better go get your shoes on," he laughed. "A clean gown wouldn't hurt, either. Come on." He gestured for the girl to come to him, and Merrill let her crawl over the bed. Her father picked her up and took Paqua to get ready, and Merrill took one last look at the bedroom she shared with the both of them before she moved to follow.

By the time they were prepared and in the sitting room, Isabela and Bethany had finished waking up; much as they both denied it, Merrill  _knew_  they'd gotten at least a couple of hours' sleep at some point over the course of the night, though as the two women descended the stairs, the elf kept herself from pointing this out, as she didn't want Isabela to play it off with the kinds of jokes that weren't really very funny. Before Merrill or Carver could say anything, however, Paqua squealed with glee and bounded over to the new arrivals. "Auntie Beffa! Auntie Bewwa!" She exclaimed, very nearly tripping on the rug as she went. As quick as an arrow, though, Isabela caught the girl before she fell. "Guess what? Guess what?"

Paqua kept repeating her entreaty until the pirate nearly rolled her eyes. "What is it, little birdy?"

"We're going on a trip," Paqua reported, as though it were her duty. "I'm gonna walk the whole way!"

Isabela blinked rapidly, looking from the girl to Merrill, then to Carver and Bethany. "That...was today?" She knew about it, of course; Merrill had told Bethany, and Bethany had invited almost everyone else in their merry circle of crooks and mercenaries. The elf didn't expect Fenris to come along, since he'd always made his feelings about mages as clear as a running stream, but she hoped to see Anders and Varric at the very least. S omething in Isabela's eyes said that the pirate was trying to make up an excuse. "I...uhh…"

And just as Merrill had steeled herself for the woman's exit, just as Bethany's eyes had skirted sideways and Carver had breathed a heavy sigh, Paqua blinked up at Isabela. "Doncha wanna come, Auntie Bewwa ?" The question was tentative, almost ghostly, as though the answer could spell the difference between a tantrum and a serene morning. "Auntie Beffa's gonna come."

Merrill was about to intervene, to step between her daughter and her oldest friend before one or the other did their best to lay her morning to ruin, when Bethany gave the pirate an expectant look. "I…" Isabela began, and then she seemed to crumple slightly. "I guess I've got nothing better to do," she informed the child in front of her, sparing the girl a tight smile . "You're too adorable, you know."

Paqua nodded. "I know." And she must have grinned, because Isabela grinned back, throwing a long-suffering glance at the girl's actual aunt.

Carver turned and stepped into the anteroom that served as the estate's entrance chamber. "We'd better get going if we want to collect the dwarf and his pet healer, " he called over his shoulder, before moving to retrieve his greatblade from the wall by the door.

Merrill gestured for Paqua to come beside her, and the other two women took up the rear. "Aveline might've liked to come," Bethany mused lightly, though she did little more than sigh at Carver's answering snort.

"I dunno," Isabela wondered. " I think Big Girl might be uncomfortable about bearing witness to blood magic when her arse isn't hanging over the fire…"

The woman's words led to a series of questions that they all had to field from Paqua , which took the troop all the way to the Hanged Man, where Varric and Anders stood ready in front of the door.

"Well lookie here," the dwarf gruffed, elbowing his companion in the hip. "Looks like you weren't lying when you said they'd gone and spawned, Blondie." Paqua chose that precise moment to hide behind her father's legs, though, so Varric cupped his eyes against the sun's glare. "Funny," he said. "Could've sworn I saw a little hawkling just a second ago. Where could she have got off to?"

Merrill sighed. "I'm sorry, Varric," she allowed. "Paqua's always a bit nervous around strangers. We really should have brought her down here sooner…"

Varric laughed out loud. "I think I can understand why you wouldn't want to show your daughter around Lowtown ," he assured her, waving the concern away. Then he cocked his head, leaning to get a peek at the girl from between Carver's legs. "Hey, did your dad ever tell you that one time he got so drunk he tried to kiss Isabela and got a face full of table?"

This news served to confuse the child out of her shyness, at least enough for her to look back at the pirate. "Did you really hurt Papa?"

"Only a little bit," Isabela confessed. "And it was a  _very_  long time ago, sweetling. Before you were even here. But you shouldn't believe everything Varric tells you; he's never been very faithful to the truth."

The dwarf grunted. "I resemble that remark." Then he bowed low. "Varric Tethras, madam, at your service." Varric rose and tipped his head toward the human mage beside him. "I take it you already know Anders."

Paqua nodded slowly; she'd seen the mage not less than once a month, and often at least once per week, for all twenty-two-and-a-half months she'd been alive. And she seemed to accept Varric's presence with Anders as one of her parents' friends, perhaps not quite as trustworthy as Isabela and Bethany.

With the greetings done, they all passed through Kirkwall's Lowtown gate; they hiked for more than two hours, until the city was little more than a memory behind them. Carver held his tongue when Paqua grew tired enough to beg for his arms , and her enthusiasm for the hills and the rare trees they passed made the miles they crossed go more easily beneath their feet. After a break for a late-morning meal, Merrill guided her family and companions to a high hill crowned with a solitary tree, not too far away from the valley where her clan had camped for so long.

Part of her wanted to go all the way to the  _vir'shiral_ , where she could be certain of  _Mythal's_  presence, but the Dalish elf knew better than to disturb the ancient spirits; after her folly in the Alienage, Marethari had all but commanded her to confront and slay the demon at the summit of Sundermount, and then the Keeper had moved the clan at long last . She'd claimed that Merrill was welcome to join them, but the former First had seen the mistrust and suspicion that lingered in the other elves' eyes, and she'd elected to remain amongst the  _shem'len_. Now the Dalish mage had little cause to regret that decision; she felt more at peace and in place amongst this unlikely band of  _shem'len_ , along with their trusty  _dur'gen'len_ , than she ever had with her elven kin. And Merrill still kept collecting Dalish lore, she kept learning history and old magics, and one day she would pass her knowledge on to her own daughter, even if she never found a proper place with the Dalish themselves .

Shaking her head to clear it of those maudlin thoughts, Merrill found a flat spot on the hill. "Here," she told her fellows, and for the first time since she'd left the estate, the mage began to feel a bit nervous. "Normally, when the Dalish bond, their kith and kin spread out in a circle and link hands...but we don't really have enough people for that," she observed. "Not that that's bad," Merrill hastened to point out. "It'll be alright."

"We can still stand in a pentagon," Isabela pointed out, after looking around the company. "If the mutt can be trusted to stand still, that is," she teased the mabari hound, who'd followed them all the way from the estate. "Paqua can sit with him," the pirate suggested, smirking down at the girl; somehow, incongruously, the child had ended up marching hand-in-hand with the Rivaini rogue during the last leg of the journey.

Barcus  _whoofed_  congenially, and he deigned to accept the child's hugs and kisses with all of the dignity a warrior of his standing could muster, but he did not move as the humans and the dwarf arrayed themselves around Merrill and Carver. The Dalish elf turned so that the girl was firmly within her sight. "Alright," Merrill began, searching her mind for the right words to use with all of her friends' eyes looking upon her so expectantly. "Thank you for coming out here with us...that is, with Carver and me. You all know why we're here."

"You two're getting married," Varric supplied, from somewhere behind her. "'Bout time you and Junior made it official."

Carver gave Merrill a wink, and Paqua made an awed sound, but the Dalish elf glanced back at the beardless dwarf. "Not...exactly," she corrected him. "It isn't like a  _shem'len_  ceremony. We're going to bind our magic together." Her eyes turned to Anders, who looked a bit uncomfortable, but the human mage said nothing. "It's an old Dalish rite, performed in the days of Arlathan, when all Elvhen had the touch of the earth and the blessing of the sky. A promise for and by the gods, that two of the People become one in their eyes. It...hasn't been properly done in nearly a thousand years, as far as I can tell, but I know what I'm doing ."

"And I trust you, love," Carver assured her. "Just tell me what I need to do."

Merrill nodded, at once nervous and relieved by the faith the man showed in her. She was almost certain that the ceremony would work, and would mean something more than the empty symbols that the mundanes contented themselves with... and she was almost as certain that no harm could come of it. "Hold out your hand," she told her lover. He extended his left arm, palm skyward, and with another nod, the Dalish elf reached around the back of her own neck to undo her earthen scarf. She wrapped one end firmly about Carver's wrist and let the rest unfurl, so that it hung halfway to the ground.

Then the elf unsheathed her  _da'mis'u_ , the blade that she'd used to teach Carver his first lessons with blood magic, years before. She spoke in the old, forgotten tongue of her people. " _Mythal, the Great Protector, please cast your soft light upon we so gathered here, so that no matter how dark the paths we walk, we can always find our way back to you._ " Merrill could tell that none of her companions understood her words, but when a light breeze shook the leaves of the nearby tree, the elf took it as a sign of the goddess' acceptance.

Merrill lay the flat of her dagger across Carver's palm, and then pressed her own left hand over metal and flesh. " _Sylaise_ ," she went on, letting her eyes go half-lidded. " _Hearthkeeper, you have blessed us beyond counting. Please guide us in our power, and in our weakness. With your wisdom, give us strength_." Her gaze danced over her daughter before it returned to Carver's face. "I love you, Carver Hawke," Merrill declared, for all the world to hear. "I will walk with you all the days of my life...and should  _Falon'Din_  guide me to the Beyond before you, there I shall wait until you c an follow."

Carver's fingers tightened around hers, his heat warming the metal between their palms. His dragon-born energy seemed to pulse with his grip. "I love you, Merrill," he affirmed, his voice hardly above the stray breezes that had begun whispering through the grass. "By the Maker and all of the other gods, I swear it."

He didn't seem to know what else to say, but Merrill silenced any doubts he might have had with a tight grin and an inclination of her head. "This may hurt a bit," she warned him, and only when he nodded to her did she turn the blade so that its sharp edges pressed into their skin. With a quick jerk, the elf pulled her  _da'mis'u_  free from their grasp. The sting of the cut made her hiss, but Carver hardly blinked, and as their blood mingled in their hands, Merrill took up her prayer to her gods once again. She beseeched  _Ghi'lan'na'in_  to guide them and keep them safe from  _Fen'Harel_ , the Dread Wolf, with his tricks. She asked  _June_  to keep their cloth and their crafts pure, and she begged  _Elgar'nan_  to stay his vengeance, though they might deserve it. All the while, Merrill felt the fiery strength of Carver's blood leeching into her wound, and she fancied that her own earthier energy tickled through his veins. " _We stand here_ ," the elf concluded. " _Two made one, in flesh and blood. And though miles might come between us, we shall never again be parted in our hearts_."

As she spoke, Merrill sheathed her dagger, and wrapped her scarf around their clutched hands. Blood ran in drips onto the ground between them until the cloth bound their limbs tightly together, soaking up the crimson liquid and sealing their bond. The sun seemed to burn more brightly across their shoulders, though Merrill knew that at least a bit of the warmth she felt came from within...and when she listened closely, she could hear a second heartbeat echoing within her own chest, over and above the cacophony from the gathered witnesses. The elf was about to unwrap the cloth and declare the ceremony finished when Carver pulled her forward, catching her by the shoulder with his free hand and drawing her into a one-armed kiss.

"I love you," he whispered again, his forehead against hers. "And I always will. I promise."

Merrill didn't trust herself to speak at first, so she just buried her face in the crook of Carver's neck and held him tightly. After blinking away a few unshed tears, she pulled away from their embrace. "Thank you," she told him, and then she repeated her gratitude to everyone present.

"Hey," Paqua called as Merrill and Carver began undoing the blood-soaked scarf. "I didn't see no magic!"

The Dalish elf's lips parted for an apology, but Bethany stepped closer to her niece, going down to one knee. "Sometimes the best magic can't be seen," she told the girl. "But look here." The woman extended her index finger, and a moment later, an orb of ice coalesced above the digit. Bethany deftly caught it and held it out to Paqua. "Now you've seen some magic, little one."

Varric chuckled. "If you repeat that when we get back to the Hanged Man, Hawke, I'll pay for the drinks ."

Merrill healed the cuts across her and Carver's palms as the rest of the party bantered, and she made sure to leave a sliver of a scar in their flesh, so that they'd never have cause to forget the new depths of their bond. Then she followed her friends back into the city that had become her home, though each step she took away from the great foothills and untamed grasses only felt like a half-step; Merrill might live with  _shem'len_  and have a half-elven child, but she was Dalish, and she'd come to learn that nothing would ever take that from her .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to buttercup23 for helping me see this story through! We're coming up on the end!


	53. The Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crows always complete their contracts once accepted, or until the guildmaster who accepted the contract has been killed, along with the rest of the cell. Nobody knows this better than Zevran.

_You know, for a newly-acclaimed teyrna, you seem to spend an extraordinary amount of time away from your domain_ , Zevran would have said, had his Warden not chosen that precise moment to clap her hand over his mouth. He tensed against the chains that connected his wrists to the ceiling, but as strong as he was, he knew that he could not hope to lift himself out of the other elf's grip.

"I hear you're planning on heading out of town," she breathed against his ear, her scarred chest pressing against his bare shoulders. "You plan on quitting Denerim...maybe for good." Her index finger shifted to clamp over his nostrils, cutting off his last avenue of breath, even as her free hand stroked almost lovingly down his flank. "When I let go, you'll tell me why ."

The Antivan waited as patiently as he was able, but his Warden didn't exactly make it easy for him; her left hand claimed his hip and abdomen, fingernails tracing over his flesh and digging in by turns, and she held on until his lungs burned and his heart hammered away in his chest. When at last her right hand relented, he had to gasp for breath, and he was powerless to resist her spinning him around to face her. "It is true,  _querida_ ," Zevran admitted after a moment. "Though I do not know your source for this information." He'd been discreet, even by his usual standards. "I don't suppose it's too much to assume that the bard had some hand in it?"

Athadra shook her head, her blood-coloured eyes blazing with something even deeper than hunger. "I've got me own ways of knowing," she allowed, vaguely, in that too-rough brogue. "Leliana and I haven't precisely seen accord since I led her away from Morrigan empty-handed." Even in the low light of the dungeon beneath the capitol's Redcliffe estate, he could see the amusement dancing in her face, and it was nearly enough to take the ache out of his manacled wrists. "Do you intend to return to me, Zev? Or is this to be one last flight?"

He watched her step backwards away from him, not exactly gracefully, but as she moved toward the rack on the far wall, Zevran shivered in anticipation. "I do not know,  _amora_ ," he answered honestly, tasting the new appellation for perhaps the second or third time. If it offended her, he'd certainly find out in just a few moments. "Nuncio is still after me, and my skills are not so sharp as they once were."

His Warden turned to select her first instrument; he was not disappointed to see her pick up a three-tailed shortwhip, the kind that would mar without scarring. Of course, he expected to weep in more than one way before the night was through . "And so you're going to fly into the viper's nest, an old Crow ready to die?" Her timbre cracked but slightly, and if Zevran did not know her so thoroughly, he might have pinned the subtle shift to mere anticipation of what was to come.

But he could tell in her step and in her glance that his Warden was truly worried about him, and that brought an ironic smile. "I do believe my usefulness with the king is wearing thin, even if he's released the bard to pursue her interests in Orlais ," he pointed out.

Athadra stepped around him, letting the ends of her whip tickle over his hip and upper thigh. "You're afraid that your own assassins will distract you from protecting him," she stated bluntly, taking a position a half-pace behind him. He consciously relaxed, willing himself to accept her first strike, whenever she deigned to give it to him.

"You are not wrong, my Warden," he allowed, when she hadn't made a move in a dozen heartbeats. His reply was met with the first kiss of fire that licked over his back in three lines, though he'd had far rougher introductions, as these affairs went. Hissing through his teeth, Zevran shifted his weight from his legs to his arms, stretching out his spine to present a more appealing canvas. "Our trip through Antiva brought with it renewed attention to my impertinent existence, sadly...as I knew it would."

His Warden's follow-up stung along Zevran's flank and ribcage, and a third impact had the small of his back glowing with the flogger's attentions. "Yet you followed me anyway," Athadra observed, and he couldn't tell whether the growl in her tone was borne of her frustration with his assistance in Tevinter or with his lack of cries from her current ministrations. "And even if you're useless to Alistair," she went on, striking him thrice more in the process, "you're...still...useful...to...me!"

Each word was punctuated with a blow harsher than the last, until the final caress sent a finger of flame racing through Zevran's spine, straight to his lungs. He couldn't hold back the gasp of pleasure that the sensation tore from him...or, at least, he could blame the sensation rather than the frankness of his Warden's statement, which admitted more than she might have realised. "Ahh, Athadra," he sighed. "Would you turn me from a Crow into your mockingbird, piercing your evenings with song ?"

The woman was already halfway to the rack, but Zevran did not look to see which tool she looked to replace the three-tailer with...as old a hand as he was to this game, the Antivan still enjoyed his surprises, from time to time. "Oh, I'll make you sing," she assured him, after she'd made her selection. "But I can't go to Antiva with you to clean out the birdcage, I'm afraid...though I'm not certain you have to, either."

As she took her place behind him, he took his chances and spoke up. "Surely you do not think that Nuncio would stop hunting for me even if you kept me locked away beneath the floorboards," he all but spat.

She waited until he'd drawn a lungful of breath before she answered, her reply coming in the form of a leather strap across the backs of his thighs. The smack reverberated in his ears, cutting through the startled yell that the blow had torn from him. "Of course not," his Warden snorted, and she gave him another solid blow across his shoulderblades. "But I hear that Hawkes are good at killing Crows, when they've got a mind."

Zevran could not form a proper response, for each time he took enough breath to answer, she drove it from his lungs with another powerful strike, until the flesh from his shoulders to his knees vibrated with dull heat. As he felt the glow consume him, however, the Antivan elf turned her suggestion over in his mind. Perhaps his battlefield need not be in Antiva after all, he mused, as his Warden closed in to pepper his abused flesh with more torture from her very fingers. Perhaps Kirkwall was where his fate would be determined, instead .

* * *

More than once, during his short trip across the narrow sea, Zevran's fingers moved to flick his earring, only to find it gone. He hadn't thought that his Warden would accept the token, when she'd come to see him off at Denerim's docks a few weeks after their discussion in her dungeon, but she'd surprised him. It was as much an admission of her feelings as he dared hope for, at least until his problems with his former employers were settled...but still, it was good to finally see where things stood, after so many years of dancing.

And having a reason to return to Ferelden's chilly, dog-smelling shores was more pleasing than the Antivan could have expected. Not that he'd intended to bleed out in an alleyway in Antiva City, necessarily, but Zevran had always played the odds as only a scoundrel could, and he could not hope to walk away from an encounter with Nuncio unscathed….at least not without allies of his own. Allies he'd not have thought to call upon, without Athadra's suggestion. He would have doubted that the Champion of Kirkwall would deign to assist him, but his Warden had let slip that the Hawke woman had come under contract from the Crows herself. A bit of digging told him that Nuncio's signature had authorised that contract, which was too much of a coincidence to ignore, by far.

So the assassin sharpened his blades, and he prayed that the letters he'd sent to Rivain would be intercepted by the right sort of people en route. In them, he spoke to a fictional friend about his plan to get lost amongst the Dalish elves that had made their camp outside Kirkwall; Zevran knew that they had moved on, and would be unlikely to accept him in any case, but he trusted Nuncio not to know either of these things. If his bait worked, it would only be a matter of days after landing in the city that a trap would be set up for him, hopefully by Nuncio himself.

When he arrived at the Champion's doorstep, Zevran only remembered at the last moment that the dwarven merchant Bodahn Feddic resided in the estate. "Ahh,  _Senior_ Bodahn, it is lovely to see you again," he told the well-dressed dwarf, who looked puzzled and then taken aback by the assassin's appearance. "It is no trouble if you do not recall my name; notoriety is unhealthy for a man of my business, no?"

Bodahn covered his mouth with his hand for a moment, and then he laughed jovially. "Master Zevran!" He exclaimed, to any and all who might be passing by. "It's lovely to see you again, messere! It seems not a year goes by these days without someone from our Blight travels showing up at the Champion's home."

Zevran flinched at the open use of his name, and tried to make haste with his entry. "That is an interesting happenstance," he mused. "Might I have a word with our fair Champion? I'm afraid it is rather urgent business, my savvy friend." He tried his smoothest smile to help accent his request.

The dwarf's brows bristled, but whether or not he suspected the Antivan of nefarious purposes, he evidently judged it prudent to usher Zevran inside. "Please wait here," Bodahn instructed him, at the end of the mansion's entryway.

The Antivan shrugged and stood his ground, looking curiously about at the room's simple furnishings. There was a bench where one might sit to lace one's boots, and a deep red rug on the carpeted floor, but otherwise the anteroom was bare. Spaces of lighter paint on the walls told of old paintings that no longer hung there, and Zevran found himself curious as to why they hadn't been replaced, but his musings were interrupted by an excited bark from the room beyond. "Ahh, yes, my furry friend," he said in greeting to the mabari who nearly bowled him over. "You're beginning to look a bit grey in the muzzle, if I'm not being too bold," he teased the dog, and had to jerk his hand away to avoid a playful snap of the beast's jaws.

"He  _is_  nearly nine years old," came a wistful voice from the sitting room beyond. "Don't look at me like that, Barcus," the Champion scolded her hound. "You  _are_. And if I've got anything to do with it, you'll have another nine years to go, at least." That seemed to reassure the mabari, and he padded back into the sitting room.

Zevran took the chance to follow. "You have a lovely home, my dear Champion," he began, and he let his eyes scan briefly around the sitting room. Here there were at least a few tapestries, and tables which held fine silver implements for writing or crafting. Then, quite deliberately, the assassin turned his gaze upon the human woman. She did not wear armour, but her plainspun garments did little to accentuate the figure he knew was lurking just beneath them. "And you are as beautiful as when last we parted, of course."

The Champion seemed unimpressed with his half-hearted flattery; the flash in her eyes reminded him of nothing so much as his Warden, and he found himself grinning, even as the Champion spoke. "What brings your company, Serah Zevran? Please speak plainly."

The assassin shrugged, leaning against the doorway and considering his fingernails. "I have heard that you were attacked by a cell of Antivan Crows recently," he let on. "You should know that it is only a matter of time before you are attacked again, and again...until either you are dead, or you have slain the guildmaster who accepted the job of killing you in the first place."

He did not think it was entirely his imagination that the air grew colder in the room. "That was over a year ago," the Champion whispered, a shadow crossing her face. "If what you say is true, why have I not seen any more of them since?"

"Because Athadra and myself have been keeping them rather busier than they are accustomed to being," Zevran retorted, buffing his fingernails on the fine shirt he wore over his supple leather armour. "We have killed a pair of guildmasters over the years, including the foolish bastard who took out a contract on Athadra at the beginning of the Blight, but my former guildmaster remains."

Suspicion stole over the Champion's expression, but she took a step forward, rather than shrinking back. "What do you mean, your former guildmaster?"

She appeared unarmed, but then again, she was a mage, and Zevran had no intention of decorating her walls with his blood. "It is as it sounds," he admitted, trying on one of his more dashing smirks. "I was once an Antivan Crow myself, as you may know."

"I seem to remember Varric saying something to that effect, after we got back from Antiva," the Champion supplied, but she seemed no more mollified. "But what does your former guildmaster have to do with anything?"

The assassin clicked his tongue. "He is a man by the name of Nuncio Caldera Lanos, and he is an incredibly ruthless killer, even when compared to the company that you and the Warden tend to keep. He also wishes to see the both of us dead; you, because he accepted a contract on your life , and I, because I had the temerity to fail him." When the Champion's eyes flashed again, Zevran chuckled and held up a hand. "My failure was many years ago, when he loaned me out to help fulfill a contract in Ferelden. You have no need to worry on my behalf, my dear Champion, this I swear." He decided to press his luck, to play the odds. "We have a common enemy," he observed. "I have arranged for that enemy to arrive here, likely within the next day or two, in order to kill me. He may very well attempt to recruit you to the purpose, just so that he can keep an eye on you and kill you when I have been dealt with. I propose that we work together."

A creak on the far stairs drew Zevran's attention, but the Champion did not hear it, for she looked to speak. Before she could get a word out, however, Isabela came into view and laughed. "I  _thought_  I'd smelt Antivan leather," the pirate quipped, sauntering over to stand somewhere between the Champion and the elf.

He let his eyes wander more thoroughly over the caramel-skinned woman, since the cut of her garments was far more flattering...though the Rivaini's bodice seemed hastily done up, and one of her boots rode a few inches lower than the other . Zevran also noticed a distinct lack of the usual preening that normally accompanied his gaze, and he suppressed the urge to frown. "It is good to see you are well, Isabela," he allowed, with a glance back at the Champion. The thought occurred that her rough tunic might have been a hasty selection owing to his own untimely arrival, which would normally have given him cause to flirt, if the mage didn't look as though she were within an inch of freezing him to death with her mind. "I was just discussing a business proposal with your Champion, here...and possibly getting myself killed in the process."

Isabela glanced at the other woman, and then looked away for just a second before her attention refocused on the Champion once more. "Hold a moment," she purred, taking a step closer. "I've seen you look like that before, Beth. Are you  _jealous_?" The pirate's question was undercut with a breathy laugh .

The Champion's cheeks rouged just slightly, enough that only Zevran's elven eyes could pick up on the change. "No," she declared. "I'm more worried that he's shown up out of the blue and is trying to rope me into murdering someone with him." Those brown eyes cut into Zevran again, as skeptical as before. "You speak of Crows coming after me, leaving it unsaid that my family is in danger. I don't like people who threaten my family."

"And people you do not like have a habit of dying," Zevran observed, not without a certain professional courtesy. "Which is why I thought to warn you-"

"You claim you've led assassins to my doorstep," the Champion cut in. "Without asking, you've put this household at risk…" She trailed off when Isabela laid an ungloved hand on her shoulder, and Zevran witnessed the silent exchange the two women shared with a mix of an ancient envy and an obvious relief.

"Of that I am guilty," the assassin admitted, shrugging his shoulders lightly. "But it was only a matter of time before Nuncio or one of his underlings made another attempt on your life...and then, it would have been a time and place of his choosing, rather than of ours. If we work together, Champion, we can end his threat once and for all. I swear it on my mother's memory."

Another few heartbeats passed, during which the Champion and her Rivaini companion spoke volumes with their eyes alone, and eventually the mage relented. "Alright," she allowed, looking grimly determined. "I suppose we should work out some sort of plan, then."

Zevran nodded. "It should be relatively simple," he claimed. "I have laid a trail that I am going to hide in the mountains near here, and Nuncio is almost certain to come after me in force...unless he can convince you to do the deed instead."

The Champion arched a brow. "Why would this Nuncio fellow want me to help him? Isn't he trying to kill me?"

"Indeed so, fair Champion," the assassin affirmed. "But as I've said, Nuncio is ruthless...and very nearly as clever as he believes himself to be. He will bring an entire cell of Crows, but he will also know of your reputation. Were it me, I would pose as an Antivan nobleman or magistrate, and I would try to convince you to go after a notorious fugitive out of your own sense of justice." He couldn't help the smirk that dimpled his cheek at the thought. "Then, after you have exhausted yourself in battle and hopefully killed the fugitive, I would descend upon you with all of my men, finishing two enemies with but a single battle ."

"That  _does_  sound like something you'd do," Isabela added, giving the Antivan a smirk of her own. "But what if Nuncio is cleverer than you think he thinks he is, and he tries to kill Beth's family while she's distracted with you?"

Zevran sniffed, annoyed that he hadn't thought of that wrinkle. "We shall not give him that chance, if it can be helped." He looked to the Champion. "You have a fair few companions of note," he pointed out. "Including the Captain of the Guard, as I recall." The mage nodded, slightly, and the assassin pressed on. "Nuncio will not arrive for another few days, so we should make arrangements to secure the house against infiltration. Between the three of us and the crossbow-wielding dwarf-and the dog," he added, after an argumentative bark, "we should be able to take care of Nuncio and his thugs."

The Champion laughed incredulously. "A whole cell of them?"

"Fewer than the darkspawn that swarm beneath the ground," Zevran pointed out. "Or so I'm told. In any event, I have every confidence that we can end Nuncio, and then you need never see me again, if you wish." He kicked off from the doorway and took two steps closer to the Champion, extending his hand. "Do we have a deal?"

The Champion hesitated, but then she appeared to come to a decision. "Alright," she conceded, and she took up his offered limb in a surprisingly strong grip. "But if you're thinking of double-crossing me, I will kill you, too. Isabela's friend or not."

The sound of her voice reminded him so much of his Warden, then, that Zevran had to chuckle in order to cover a wistful sigh that threatened . "Trust me when I say that I would expect nothing less from a woman of your experience. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go find some inconspicuous accommodations outside of the city." He spared Isabela a look as he turned. "If you still do a bit of business around town, I suggest you keep a few ears out for Antivan accents," he suggested lightly. "I shall return in the morning, and we can begin to set the snare ."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's reading along, but especially to my excellent beta-reader, buttercup23!


	54. The Easy Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meredith and Orsino are making a public spectacle, practically on Bethany's doorstep. She decides to intervene, after a fashion, but it's clear that tensions are running too high to find a peaceful solution.

As soon as Bethany stepped out of her front door, she knew that something odd was going on in Hightown. A crowd of nobles was backed up nearly to the low gate outside of her estate, and for just a moment, she worried that they'd gathered to address the Champion of Kirkwall. After a few moments, however, Bethany was thoroughly disabused of that notion when she heard the echoing words of First Enchanter Orsino, the greying elf who nominally led the Kirkwall Circle of Magi. Of course he could do nothing without Knight-Commander Meredith's permission, and over the last few years, the powerful woman's permissiveness seemed to have all but evaporated.

"...I know you fear us," Orsino cajoled his audience, from the foot of the steps that would lead to the Viscount's Keep. "Knight-Commander Meredith uses that fear to take control of your city," he went on, his voice carrying much farther than Bethany would have given him credit for . "Over the last two years, she's opposed every effort to replace Viscount Dumar, and you have seen firsthand the chaos of her reign. Templars guarding the Viscount's Keep and other offices, far away from the Gallows." As Bethany drew closer, she could see the man's forehead wrinkling and his arms moving with the passion of his words. "Will you allow it to go on forever?"

A murmuring picked up through the crowd, most of whom hadn't yet noticed the Champion's presence among them. It was easy enough to blend in, out of her armour with her long hair flowing freely over her shoulders, and Bethany didn't mind the relative anonymity. After a few seconds, though, silence fell over the nobles like a wave from the sea, and Bethany's stomach tensed when she saw the crowd parting to reveal the knight-commander herself, leading a small squad of winged-helmed templars. "Return to your homes," Meredith barked at all and sundry. "This farce is over." She spoke as though the gentry and nobility of Kirkwall could not hope to oppose her, and for a heartbeat, she did not seem wrong.

Bethany herself turned on her heel, intending to slink off to the Hanged Man; she'd hoped to sneak into Varric's room without being noticed, for a game of cards and another round of tall tales that he so loved to serve up, especially when they featured the Champion of Kirkwall. But before she'd completely about-faced, Orsino called out, seemingly to the Champion herself. "Wait!" She cursed to herself, silently, and paused. "...Perhaps there are some who might disagree with you, knight-commander," the first enchanter drawled, and then she cursed  _him_  under her breath.

With a sigh, Bethany turned back to face the man, which also brought Knight-Commander Meredith into her view. "Do not hide behind the Champion," Meredith scoffed, with hardly a glance to the woman she would so easily dismiss . "She has no role in this."

Another round of murmuring propagated from the nobles surrounding Bethany, and they parted for her as smoothly as they'd done for Meredith, a few moments before . "You should both calm down," she said, stepping closer to the centre of the throng's attention. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded the protesting mage and his gaoler. "Before this gets violent." Her fingers closed around air, three inches from the dagger she'd concealed by her hip.

That was enough to draw Meredith's direct attention. "I should remain calm while this  _mage_  provokes an uprising?" She spat, taking a single step closer to her interlocutor. "I think not!"

Orsino did his best to head the knight-commander off before she got any closer to Bethany. "I think the Champion's views would be appreciated," he sneered, showing more courage in the face of Meredith than Bethany had seen since Athadra had nearly come to blows with the woman. "Or do you fear what she has to say?"

Meredith waved away the accusation. "I fear nothing," she declared, taking a measuring look at the Champion. "My only interest here is in keeping order and protecting the innocent."

In the last part, at least, Bethany could find grounds enough to agree with the knight-commander...even if she suspected they would starkly disagree upon how to go about protecting innocents, or indeed who counted as innocent at all. Even so, she didn't want to antagonise either the knight-commander or the first enchanter, and so she sought to sound out Orsino's intentions. "Why do this now, first enchanter?"

The elf looked at her as though she were accusing him of starting a rebellion, rather than giving him a chance to explain himself. "The people of this city need to know what's really happening in the Gallows, in their name," he declared. "Too many of you seem to have forgotten that the City of Chains keeps us locked away, right across the water."

Bethany felt the sting of his implied accusation, that  _she_  had forgotten about her fellow mages since becoming Champion. Whether Meredith understood this subtext or not, the knight-commander offered her own retort. "And then what?" She begged, sardonically. "They tear down the Gallows with pitchforks and torches? That would be better?"

"It certainly couldn't be worse ," Orsino spat, though the Champion spied a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "Your constant refusal to listen to reason leaves me no choice but to appeal directly to the people you refuse to let govern themselves. At one time, that was just the mages, but now it seems you won't be satisfied until you've shackled all of Kirkwall to your will."

"My will is to serve the Maker in all things,  _mage_ ," Meredith retorted. "And what I refuse to listen to are excuses. Perhaps you are ill-suited to your position if you cannot understand that."

The Champion saw the rising tension reflected in the gathered templars, who stood straighter and kept their hands closer to their weapons than she felt comfortable with, and so she sought to step in once more, even if she'd rather have turned heel and ran. "He has a point, knight-commander," Bethany supplied, as gently as she could. "You're hardly receptive to anyone that disagrees with you." She remembered all of the templars that Meredith had consigned to their deaths in the fool's errand of confining the Warden-Commander, though the Champion knew better than to mention those lost souls .

The knight-commander's lip curled in a snarl, her ice-eyes smoldering. "And I become less receptive each moment this nonsense continues."

Though she'd faced much harsher glares and more open threats, even recently, Bethany didn't let herself rise to the challenge the other woman offered. Instead she crossed her arms and looked to Orsino. "Rogue mages  _have_  been a threat to the city," she observed, and she did her best to ignore the look of indignant betrayal he spared her.

Meredith redirected her ire to the first enchanter as well. "Exactly," she exclaimed. "And you would have me do nothing in response?"

Orsino pinched the bridge of his nose, his frustration evident, though he apparently knew better than to mutter to himself, lest the looming templars take it as a threat. "I would have you not paint us all with the same brush, knight-commander," he pleaded. "If you punish the innocent as harshly as the guilty, what message do you think you're sending to those you're claiming to protect?"

Something in Meredith's expression softened, just slightly. "You know as well as I that temptation preys on every mage, no matter how noble their intentions," the knight-commander said, almost wearily. "We must guard against corruption even in the most innocent of your kind, Orsino ."

The first enchanter breathed an incredulous laugh. "You hear this, yes?" He demanded of Bethany, his eyes glittering. "She would lock up you too, if she were able." It was as close as anyone had come to publicly acknowledging her magic ever since Meredith had threatened to address the matter, shortly before Bethany's duel with the Arishok.

"The Champion saved this city," the knight-commander retorted, cutting into Bethany's mild panic, though she noted that it wasn't precisely a denial. "Unlike some who threaten it with their misguided outrage." That scintilla of empathy seemed to have disappeared, by now, leaving ice and steel in the woman's tone .

Orsino's voice was much more heated. "You push us into desperate acts," he growled through his teeth, "and then use those acts as justification to press us even further!"

_That sounded like something Anders would say within a minute's conversation_ , Bethany reflected.  _Especially these days_. Without thinking it through, she said aloud, "The templars may only be making the problem worse."

Which was exactly the wrong thing to say if she wanted to stay beneath Meredith's notice. "I will not sacrifice the well-being of innocents for the sake of a few mages," the knight-commander declared haughtily. "I will not!"

Before Orsino could escalate the conflict even more, the Champion tried to re-orient the conversation to the man's stated grievances. "The first enchanter accused you of trying to take control of the city," she reminded Meredith, and those nobles still gawking.

Meredith snorted. "The city," she hissed. "I am trying to keep order, until there is a ruler capable of succeeding where Dumar failed!"

The change of subject seemed to ground Orsino's anger. "And if not?" He answered, hazarding a look out into the crowd. "Will the templars rule over Kirkwall forever?"

"We will not stand idle while the city burns around us," Meredith declared.

The first enchanter cackled, as if in victory. "The Templar Order exists to guard the Chantry and the Circle," he lectured, more for the benefit of his audience than his accuser. "I suggest you let the nobility rule the city."

Meredith shook her head. "I do not need you nor anyone else to tell me what  _my_  duty is,  _mage_." She put enough venom into the last word to make an adder blush with envy.

And now, as had so often happened in her life, Bethany felt the weight of decision pressing down on her. If she supported Meredith, it was likely Orsino would be dragged away in chains, possibly stripped of his position...and maybe even his life. It would also mean that the Champion would not have to fear Meredith's wrath, at least for the present; yet that avenue might also lead to templars roaming the streets, enforcing canon and common laws with equal weight. And that was certainly no kind of city that Bethany would ever want to live in. "The first enchanter is right," she said, loudly enough for many of the nobles to hear. "You should not be ruling Kirkwall, knight-commander."

The knight-commander was unapologetic. "And yet I shall continue to do so, until this city is safe."

"You see," Orsino exclaimed. "She does not even deny it, and she refuses to see reason."

With the damage already done, Bethany saw little point in dancing around the deeper issue any longer. "Your methods have gotten more extreme over the last few years," she said, and she did not flinch back when met with the full force of the other woman's piercing gaze.

"And you could do better?" Meredith replied, crossing her wrists at the small of her back. "How well did you protect your own mother? Did she not die at a blood mage's hands?"

For one blessed instant, Bethany wanted to put her dagger through the knight-commander's eye, just as she'd seen Zevran do to Nuncio only too recently. Instead she took a breath, and tried to keep her voice from shaking with suppressed rage. "Leave my mother out of this," she warned.

Meredith's eyes softened again, but Bethany saw only blatant manipulation in the gesture, regardless of its intent. "Cold corpses speak louder than abstract freedoms, do they not?" She glanced from the Champion to the nobles around them. "As long as that's true, Kirkwall needs its templars more than it needs a new ruler."

"When will that end?" Orsino all but begged, his own voice breaking. "When will you stop seeing evil in every corner, Meredith?"

Her answer was a simple as it was ridiculous. "When it is no longer there, Orsino."

The Champion was still trying to forget the visions of another woman's eyes staring out of her mother's head that Meredith's remark had reminded her of, and so even if she'd been disposed to the knight-commander's point of view, she couldn't stomach much longer in her presenc e. "No matter what," Bethany cut in, "the first enchanter has a point."

The first enchanter appeared buttressed by the Champion's lukewarm support. "Face the truth, knight-commander," he insisted. "You are done."

"That is for me to decide," Meredith barked, and Bethany worried that the woman might call her templars to restrain the rebellious first enchanter. "No one else!"

Ready to wash her hands of this argument and its consequences, Bethany turned away, and she was almost grateful for the parting of the crowd...until she saw that she was not the sole reason for the nobles' hospitality. At the far end of the row, accompanied by another pair of templars, strolled Grand Cleric Elthina. As little as the Champion regarded the woman for the indecisiveness that had ended up with Bethany's ribs broken, she knew all too well that she could not snub Elthina. "My, my," the grand cleric sing-songed as she drew nearer. "Such a terrible commotion !"

Meredith stood up straighter, moving her arms to her sides. "This mage incites rebellion, Your Grace," she declared. "I am dealing with the matter."

Serenely, Elthina turned her gaze from Meredith to Bethany, and after a slight nod, to the first enchanter himself. "Ahh," she cooed. "Orsino...so frustrated. Do you think this course of action truly wise?"

Orsino appeared ready to re-argue his case, but after a moment, the elf deflated visibly. "I...no, Your Grace."

The grand cleric's smile promised peace. "Of course not," she agreed, and then she turned her attention to a couple of Meredith's templars. "Young men, would you show the first enchanter back to the Circle?" Both helmeted warriors bowed, and Elthina added, as an afterthought, "Gently, if you please."

The knight-commander made her displeasure known immediately. "Your Grace, this man should be clapped in irons! Made example of!"

Elthina raised her hand, which abruptly ended the other woman's protests. "That's enough, Meredith," she said, just a bit more sharply than before. "This... _display_...demeans us all. Surely you can see that?" Wearily, she added, "Go back to the Gallows and calm down." Then, as if to complete the so-called ruler's humiliation, she twisted the knife. "Like a good girl." Bethany wondered why the grand cleric couldn't have been nearly as direct when dealing with the Qunari and her own fanatical underlings, years before, but no small part of her took pleasure in witnessing how little power Meredith truly had. Rather than raise another objection, Meredith bowed, with evident discomfort. Then, as one, she and her templars accompanied Orsino away from the s quare.

The Champion's hopes for a similar exit were dashed when the grand cleric turned to address her. "You have my thanks for stepping in, Champion," Elthina allowed. "If you had not…"

It had been nearly two years since Bethany had spoken with Elthina, but the other woman seemed as open and amiable as ever, despite the deft show of power she'd just demonstrated. "You're the grand cleric," the Champion pointed out, with a small ray of hope. "Aren't you in charge of the templars and Circle?"  _Can't you put an end to this_?

The grand cleric actually laughed at that, and it stung, good-natured as it was. "Ooh, my," Elthina deflected. "You have quite the estimation of my abilities, child." Then she rounded on the crowd, still milling about. "Gentle people of Kirkwall," the grand cleric announced. "Return to your homes, I implore you. This will not be solved today ." On her word, the men and women of Kirkwall's nobility began to disperse, which belied Elthina's supposed humility . "And now I must attend to the Gallows," the woman complained, as if to herself. "They  _will_ see reason," she breathed, which rekindled Bethany's hope, before Elthina added, "...if the Maker wills it. Thank you again, Champion."

Bethany could do nothing but bow, slightly. She did not rise until Elthina and her two guards had marched out of swearing distance, and then the Champion breathed an Antivan curse that she was certain would have made her mother slap her. With no further impediments, Bethany wandered to the city's Lowtown steps. It was still daylight, just past noon, but she took care to avoid the shadier pathways even so; it would not do to slaughter some non-magical  _innocents_ , after all, if someone attempted to lighten her purse or end her life.

The Hanged Man was half-full of sailors on shore leave when Bethany entered its smokey barroom, men and women unconcerned with the haughty issues that kept the nobles above them up nights. The longer that the Champion had to deal with the likes of Meredith and Orsino, the more appealing she found the prospect of letting the wind take her away...but she could not abandon her brother, or her beautiful little niece. Not while there was still some hope. Corff, the bartender, gave Bethany a quick nod and inclined his head to a corner of the room; when she looked, she saw Isabela sitting at a table, sharing a drink and a laugh with a rough-looking elf. With a sigh, she supposed that Varric and his stories would have to wait, and she made her way over to the pirate and her companion.

The elf chortled into a cup of ale. "...and then Casavir said 'Not unless you want a bucket of silverfish on your head,' and that got the old bastard to put down his rapier!"

Isabela gave him a full-throated laugh, her head tilting back to expose her long neck in a way that the pirate only did when she was certain it wouldn't get slit. That helped Bethany to ease her suspicions, but when Isabela caught sight of the Champion and those honey-coloured eyes sparkled, any reservations Bethany might have felt were forgotten. "Hawke," the pirate purred, shifting to put a boot up on the table. "Grab a chair; there's someone I want you to meet." Once Bethany had claimed the only seat available-the one that had her back to the room, rather than a wall, like the other two-Isabela gestured to her friend. "Hawke, this is Bright-eyes; he used to man the Crow's Nest back on the  _Call_."

The elf's eyes certainly were a bright, brilliant blue, like gemstones caught in the hard lines of his face. "You can call me Brand," he deflected, after emptying his glass. "What can I call you?"

"Hawke," Bethany allowed, with a sharp glance to Isabela before she could loudly proclaim her  _the Champion of Kirkwall_. "Who's Casavir?"

The question pulled a sigh from the Rivaini pirate. "He was my former first mate. I've kept my ear to the ground, but from what I hear, he didn't make it when the  _Call_  broke up." After a moment's hesitation, Isabela shrugged and knocked back her own clay cup. "Brand here's heard that we're in the market for a crew, and he's graciously agreed to help us find one," she informed the Champion. "He always was a good lad, that one."

Bethany nodded, a frown twitching over her lips. "So it's...really happening? So soon?"

"Sooner than later," the elf, Brand, butted in. "I already got about a half-dozen guys that I've worked with before who wouldn't mind going into business for the captain. It'd be best if we could set off before autumn, to put the boat and her men through their paces before the bad weather hits."

Nerves tensed in the Champion's stomach; it was already Cloudreach, and Summerday was at the end of the month. That left four months until Funalis, the official onset of autumn. "I doubt this town will last much longer than that, anyway," Bethany breathed, a streak of cynicism cutting through her uncertainty. "The mages and the templars might tear everything down before then."

Isabela shrugged. "We'll want to be gone before that happens," she assured the elf, and then she gave an exaggerated sniff. "I think I need a bath," the pirate announced, throwing Bethany a smirk. "Do  _you_  think I need a bath?"

The Champion blinked, and though she did not blush, she felt her cheeks tingle with a sudden smile. "I think I'll need more than a quick sniff to determine that," she shot back .

Brand coughed pointedly. "I...uhh...I'd best get back to scouting. Captain," he said, favouring Isabela with a nod. "Hawke." Bethany stood along with the elf, moving out of his way as he disappeared into the Hanged Man's patrons.

The pirate captain stretched marvellously and launched herself to her feet. "So,  _Hawke_ ," she drawled, leaning in close enough that her breath tickled over Bethany's cheek, but not quite close enough to silence her with a kiss. "What's got your tack all in a knot for? Did you get asked to save another bunch of puppies from drowning in the harbour?"

"Worse," Bethany sighed, glancing over her shoulder at the people milling through the bar. "But…" She leaned in herself and sniffed, making a face. "You  _do_  need a bath-hey!" The pirate struck her shoulder playfully, staggering her balance. "I'll wash your back," the Champion offered. "If you'll listen while I do it."

Isabela sucked on her bottom lip, her tongue twirling the stud she wore just above her chin. "Deal," she conceded. "But you'd better keep the water nice and hot." With a wink, the pirate sauntered toward the stairs, and Bethany could only follow .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as ever, to buttercup23 for all of her beta-reading!


	55. Strange Bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Commander of the Grey in Ferelden allows herself but one personal indulgence, before she seeks to enact a plan that might one day reshape the whole of Thedas...but if her designs are to bear any reward, Athadra must call on a few seemingly-unnatural allies.

Lothering wasn't pretty as a painting any longer, but it was much more than a smoking hole in the ground, five years after the Archdemon's minions had turned the town to little more than ash. Though it fell under her purview as Teyrna of Redcliffe , Athadra had not returned to the village of her birth since passing through after the massacre at Ostagar, a lifetime before. She did not know quite what drew her now, but Oghren and Jarvik had not questioned her when she'd taken the West Road from Denerim, rather than the North. A traveler could be forgiven for mistaking them as a trio of Orlesian chevaliers, though a more mismatched three would be harder to picture; the Andish warrior who towered over other men even on foot and the red-bearded, axe-wielding dwarf, both led by the one-eared elf with caramel skin and blood-coloured eyes.

They wore cloaks to cover the emblems on their arms and armour, but as their horses canted over Lothering's repaired bridge, Athadra's good ear picked up a few whispers of awe spread by those villagers who recognised their teyrna's description. Athadra clicked her mount into a trot to avoid any notoriety, all of her attention focused northward, to the outlands that had shaped her first decade. She rode past the windmill and the first farms, their grounds still black with the darkspawn corruption. Each minute seemed to take the Commander back in time, however, as the grasses and trees became greener and half-forgotten memories stirred in the depths of her mind. She remembered playing games with Bethany and Carver in these hills, or spying on Cethlenn and Mister Hawke studying by the moonlight.

When Lothering itself was little more than a smear of woodsmoke on the horizon behind them, Athadra turned down a country lane that looked much the same as it had the last time she'd seen it, the Summerday of her tenth year. A raft of sudden nerves clenched at her heart to find the cottage where she'd lived, still intact, with new thatching on the roof and a vegetable garden in mid-growth. The shemlen at the doorway was unfamiliar, a man not much older than Athadra herself, and the suspicion in his eyes helped to ground the Commander out of foolish hopes .

The man spit sideways and nodded at Athadra. "Can I help you, sers?" He, at least, did not seem to know the group's reputation.

The Commander held up a hand, to allay his fears and to keep her companions silent. "This homestead were tended by a family of elves, before the Blight," she allowed. "I would know what became of them, if you've any ken to spare. If not, we'll move on, and not trouble you further."

The stranger still looked worried, but he was smart enough not to antagonise three well-armed horseback riders. After a moment's thought, he inclined his head. "You must mean ol' Denny," he mused. "Had a family here, daughter with her common-law man. Maggie, I think her name was."

Athadra's jaw twitched, to hear her grandfather and her mother's names butchered so . "What happened to them?" She asked, rather than correct him and give herself away. "Do they still live?"

"Maggie I couldn't tell you," the man claimed. "The old man died...what, night ten year ago. Before them monsters come from the south, anyhow." He shook his head. "Maggie and her man moved on after that, and my pa settled here after they'd gone."

The Commander closed her eyes and took a breath; perhaps her parents, at least, had escaped the Blight. But that didn't mean they were still alive...this was Thedas, after all, and they were country elves without a city's walls nor a clan's caravans. "Were he burnt, do you know?" Athadra asked, turning her crimson eyes onto the strange man. "Or buried?"

The man rubbed his stubbled jaw, seeming to weigh his answer. "Buried," he said at last, uneasily. "There's a pile of rocks with some funny marks on 'em, up by the dried streambed, a little ways on." He nodded to his left, to the north, and away from his land. "Or at least there was, before the Blight. You might find him still there." His distaste was evident, but whether it was for the Dalish burial rites or the monsters that he'd mentioned, Athadra couldn't tell... and it was better for him that she wasn't fussed to find out.

"Thank you, ser," the Commander breathed, and then she fished out a silver coin from her purse. "For the bother," she explained as she flicked it to him.

Athadra turned, but before she could head off, the man spoke up again. "And just who are you, miss, to be throwin' coin around?"

A stab of annoyance had the Commander gritting her teeth, and she wondered if he'd have preferred her show her gratitude with steel, rather than silver. "My name is Athadra," she allowed. "My mam calls herself Maegellyn Surana, and her dad were called Denath'ena ." Before the man could make sense of her answer, or offer his own name in return, the Commander clicked her horse into a quick trot, trusting her companions to follow.

The stream bed wasn't difficult to find; in her youth, it had flowed placidly enough to dam up wading pools with stones. A few of those small piles of rock remained, low walls standing forlornly in brown earth, ready to hold back water that would not come. And once she knew what to look for, it didn't take Athadra long to locate her grandfather's cairn; it'd been placed at a bend in the river, right where the old elf liked to sit of a morning to watch the fish swim by. "Go on ahead," she told her two companions. "Make for West Hill; I'll catch up when I can."

"Commander," Oghren and Jarvik both sounded, just out of time with one another.

Athadra acknowledged their one-armed salutes with a nod, and she watched them both ride out of hearing distance before she dismounted and approached the carefully-piled stones. Her blood whispered as she approached, and though the countryside had obviously been scorched by the darkspawn, a two-foot circle of lush grass surrounded the cairn as though it had never been touched by fire nor corruption. The stones themselves were silver and white, each one scored with crudely-carved Dalish runes. Even in death, then, Denath'ena of Clan Peashal was still a great magician, worthy of respect . The Commander mused that his powers might have even given the stream life, since it had given him such pleasure in his own. "I'm here, Grandad," Athadra whispered as she stepped into the lush circle. "Your little halla's finally come home, even if she's tarried for a bit."

The cairn gave no answer, but the leaves rattled soothingly in the nearby trees, whose bark still bore witness to past battles...much like Athadra's own flesh. The Commander sunk into her knees, laying her palms on the piled stones. She felt more whispers of the power that had kept the site pristine, even in the depths of the darkspawn's rapine. "I hope you can forgive me for what I've done, Grandad," Athadra breathed, closing her eyes against the sudden burning. "And...for what I'm yet to do." Her throat thickened, and she had to take a breath. "You...you'll watch over Mam and Dad, alright? Wherever they are?"

The wind was her only reply, but as Athadra knelt there in the grass, she felt that somehow the wind was enough. After a handful of heartbeats, the Commander pushed herself to her feet, blinking away her unshed tears. Then she mounted her horse once more and rode it through the half-tamed bannorn, only slowing when she caught up with her subordinates. They did not ask the reason for her delay, and Athadra did not offer an excuse, as they continued on their journey to West Hill.

It took them three days to cross the Bannorn, but when they cut across the North Road near the port town, Athadra took her companions into the foothills to the east rather than into the small city itself. Her blood whispered far more sinisterly in her veins as they reached an outcropping of rock, far from any road or well-traveled path, and she could tell by their moods that Oghren and Jarvik could sense the living death of the taint ahead of them. "Easy," she cautioned, as the octagonal sheet of steel came into view, framed by boulders. The Commander slipped off of her horse and held the reins up to Oghren.

The dwarf took them, looking troubled. "Commander," he ventured, tugging on one of his moustachios with his left hand. "Thought you were headin' back to Kirkwall."

Athadra nodded. "I will," she affirmed, "but I never said how I was going to get there...and it's best you don't ask." Oghren's beard bristled, but he nodded through a snort, and the Commander glanced from him to Jarvik. "Tell Connor to keep training, and I'll see him take the cup by winter ." If she still drew breath, then.

" _Kommandant_ ," the Andish Warden barked, bowing his head.

"Stop off by the Circle Tower on your way back to Redcliffe," the Commander told Oghren. "Steal another couple of mages from Irving, while the old man's still in charge." She accepted the dwarf's pledge by clapping a fist over her own breast. "Now go, both of you."

The Commander watched her lieutenants disappear into the brush, with her back turned to the great iron door that would let her into the Deep Roads. When the dwarf and the human were out of sight, Athadra rounded on the ancient piece of dwarven architecture, retrieving a well-worn runestone as she went. It fit precisely into a groove in the centre of the octagon. A heartbeat later, a great seam appeared in the metal, and it buckled inward of its own accord. The susurrus within Athadra's veins reached a feverish tempo, but she forced herself into the newly-exposed cave with hardly a moment's hesitation. Once she retrieved her runestone, the thick slabs swung closed again, shutting her into near-absolute darkness.

It abated slightly when Athadra unshouldered Starfang and unwrapped it from the oilcloth that had obscured the blade's blue-green veins, but it still took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the lower light. The walls and floor of the cave were surprisingly clean, both of the taint and of rubble, but each step the Commander took brought the singing in her blood to a higher pitch. It became nearly too seductive to ignore when she reached a sudden turn and uncovered the source of the sensation, right where she'd expected.

The Architect stood amidst four of his darkspawn, creatures that he had  _awakened_  by using her Wardens' blood to break the call of the Old Gods upon the monsters. Three of them were human-like hurlocks, and the fourth was a thick-set genlock that carried a hunk of iron strapped to one arm. The Architect loomed over them all, a parody of a man with a misshapen head and uneven shoulders, his chest seemingly inverted, with his ribs rising out of his pale flesh. A sliver of a mask hid the beast's lopsided eyes, giving him an almost-human countenance. Despite the frailty his frame evinced, however, Athadra was well-acquainted with the depths of his power...and his ambition. "Commander," the monster greeted civilly, raising his long-fingered hand. "We had begun to worry you would not come."

"I gave my word," the elf retorted, and she did not lower her two-handed greatblade. "And now I'm here, and ready to be elsewhere."

"Architect," groaned one of the hurlocks, who'd smeared ochre across his half-rotted face; green, or red, or perhaps black. The light was too low for Athadra to tell for certain. "More sleeping ones will be coming soon. We must be making speed."

The Architect tilted his head and breathed a sigh. "Thank you, Putrid One ," he acknowledged, before resting a hand upon the genlock's shoulder. "Rock-breaker, take the lead, if you would be so kind."

Athadra didn't like how the genlock's eyes lingered on her before he turned to obey, but she made no move to provoke the creature. "I'll take up the rear," she allowed.

"As you will, Commander," the Architect conceded, seeming to spin on the very air. "Let us know when you require rest."

The Commander had no intention of falling asleep in such company, even if the journey would take days afoot. "I'll keep up," was all the answer she gave as she fell into a heavy jog behind the darkspawn squad.

Keep up she did, with the help of her enchanted waterskin. With her unlikely allies, Athadra passed beneath the Waking Sea; it took only a few hours for them to enter more familiar stretches of the Deep Roads, and with them came a few bands of unenlightened darkspawn that the Commander was only too happy to slaughter. Athadra used the blood of the fallen to sustain her in lieu of sleep or food, and though she hungered mightily by the time the Architect led them to their destination, she gave little sign of her need to the fiends of her company.

The Road that the Architect brought her to stood in stark contrast to the entrance she'd used, back in Ferelden. The walls were covered with a rancid growth that bespoke of a deep corruption, perhaps even of a nearby broodmother's den. Even the dwarven-carved lava channels that still provided many of the Deep Roads with heat and light had been choked over, so that Athadra had to cast more powerful light from Starfang in order to properly see. So much of the taint surrounded them that Athadra could not hope to ascertain the presence of any hostile darkspawn, which only served to set her on edge, and she began wondering if the Architect was leading her into a trap . She was considering bringing this possibility up to him, likely at the point of her sword, when they stumbled upon the first of several dozen darkspawn corpses that had been killed recently enough that some of their lifeblood remained vivid.

"I believe your colleagues must be nearby," the Architect mused. "An associate of mine was tasked with directing them, per your instructions. It is not much farther, now."

Athadra nodded. "I'll take the lead, then, to keep you from a similar fate to these Blighters." She kicked a prostrate ogre's enormous foot as she passed, and made her way to the head of the squad, making sure to keep her grip firm on Starfang.

Though they were not as far beneath the ground as Bethany and Carver had ventured, the Commander felt the air grow warmer as she advanced down the Road. The yearning sighs and needful, guttural groans of the supposedly sentient darkspawn behind her complemented Athadra's writhing veins perfectly; something was drawing her on, down the path, compelling her with promises of peace and echoes of ecstasy .

The Architect's hand landed lightly upon Athadra's shoulder, and he nearly lost his arm as a result. Only his utter lack of resistance caused her to turn away her blade at the last moment. "It is time to take a new path," the monster said, lightly, as though the Commander hadn't just swung at him with her greatblade. "Continuing on this way will lead only to an open pit of liquid rock." He tipped his grotesque head toward a gap in the nearby wall, almost invisible amidst the muck. "That will lead us to what we seek."

The Commander's eyes narrowed; her fatigue and her hunger had already eaten away at her reason, and her very blood was whispering at the back of her mind to disregard his words. "How do you know?" She forced herself to ask, even as one of her feet unconsciously slid a few inches down the wide Road.

He gestured to the other darkspawn in their company, who had begun to hiss and jerk oddly. "My brethren would already have fled to their deaths, if not for me binding them. I have seen it...a great, glowing chamber, with a single column in the centre. It calls to them, and to you, urging any who bear the taint to their destruction. I imagine that I am immune for the same reason that I cannot hear the call of the Old Gods."

Athadra could not deny the sense in the creature's words. "Very well," she conceded. "But if my Wardens didn't manage to take this turn off, you're going to go find them for me." Then, before she could throw her caution away, the Commander sprinted into the side-passage. Instantly, the overwhelming sense of corruption disappeared from her senses, like a flame suddenly doused. She could feel the Architect and his cohort, along with four other tainted presences nearby. Nathaniel and Faenathiel were familiar, but the other two carried traces of her blood within their veins, as well as considerable magic. Athadra's insides twisted as she bulled ahead in the rough-hewn tunnel, a sense of foreboding sucking at her chest from deep within. "It's a ward," she breathed, just as the tunnel opened up into a low-slung chamber lit with a pair of torches.

"Many wards, Ser Warden," a strained voice wheezed; Athadra had to blink against the sudden light, and when she opened her eyes, she saw another darkspawn with a painted face. He was well-armoured, as his kind went, and armed with a knotted staff. "I am being called the Wraith," he told her, and then he bowed deeply to the Architect, who came up beside her. "I have brought other Wardens with me, Architect, as I was commanded. We are just arrived... the spare caused much delay."

The Architect bowed in greeting. "We were also delayed unexpectedly," he breathed. "It is no trouble, Wraith. Thank you for your service."

The Commander crossed the floor of the catacomb, making for her people. The human and elf sat in a corner, seemingly as far away from the chamber's back wall as they could get, eating the nutritious paste that Athadra had stolen from the dwarves, back during the Blight. There was indeed a creature that Athadra did not recognise who crouched between them . "Report," she barked, sparing a glance for her darkspawn escort. The Architect was inspecting the far wall with a detached curiosity.

"Commander," Nathaniel grunted, after licking his fingers clean. "We found this...Qunari-" A strangled hiss cut him off. "Tal Vash-" Another rumbled from the figure, stealing the man's words.

Athadra inspected the stranger more closely; it was obviously female, nearly naked, with purple-bronze skin and quicksilver eyes. Her hair was parted with a pair of thick horns, sawed neatly just past the first curve, and her lips bore the scars of having been sewn shut. " _Saarebas_ ," the Commander supplied, and the stranger looked a bit less affronted. "Can you understand me?" A glacially-slow nod indicated that she could. "Can you speak?" Athadra demanded, a bit more testily.

The  _saarebas_  shook her head. "Her tongue was cut out," Nathaniel ventured, looking to continue his report. "We found her on the way here, in the company of a dwarf. Both were tainted, and both were willing to fight, Commander ."

Athadra nodded. "The dwarf didn't make it?" Faenathiel shuddered, which was answer enough. The Commander nodded once more. "Come on," she gruffed, and then she stalked back to the Architect. His own underlings had migrated to the corner opposite to her Wardens, even the Wraith. The wall looked perfectly smooth, in contrast to the rough surfaces of the rest of the chamber. When she put her hand up to it, the Commander felt her flesh tingle oddly, and the air thickened beneath her fingertips; the harder she pushed, the stronger the repelling force became, so that she could not touch the stone beneath . "What do you think?"

The Architect's head was bent, a long finger stroking over his chin. She could not see because of the mask, but Athadra suspected his eyes were closed, as well. "It is the final layer of a ward scheme...one of dizzying complexity," the monster mused. "I have probed out from this spot in every direction. Left to right, the barrier does not extend much beyond this room...but it seems to rise up to the surface, and there seems to be no end, down to the molten rock miles below our feet."

"There's no dispelling it?" Athadra's breath was shallow, and she found that she had to take a few steps back in order to get a proper lungful of air.

The Architect didn't seem affected in the least, but he had not tried to touch the smooth stone, as far as the Commander could tell. "No magic that has been done cannot be undone," he sighed, as though to a student. "But I confess that I do not know how to accomplish the task."

Steadying herself with another breath, Athadra turned away from the impenetrable wall. "Are you certain that she's here, Architect?"

"Tevinter lore and Chantry custom hold that the Old Gods are male," the Architect replied. "Though I did not think to confirm this when I mistakenly woke Urthemiel." He smirked, and Athadra wasn't sure if she should feel relieved or frightened that the creature seemed to have developed a sense of humour . "In any case, yes.. .I am quite certain that Lusacan is here. The sheer depth of its magical defenses all but confirms the other evidence we have both acquired."

The Commander looked to her Wardens once more. Nathaniel and Faenathiel were obviously confused, even distressed. The  _saarebas_ , however, appeared more curious than anything. Athadra faced her more fully. "Do you know how to get past the wards?" The  _saarebas_  hesitated, and after a moment she raised a finger to tap her temple. "You think you do?" A nod confirmed Athadra's interpretation. The mute Warden then pointed up, jabbing her finger at the chamber's ceiling several times. "We...have to go up?" Another nod.

Nathaniel cleared his throat. "Commander, are you actually suggesting…"

Athadra silenced him with a cutting look. "What's directly above us?" She asked the room at large, lifting her eyes upward.

"Rock, tunnel, more rock," Faenathiel grumbled. "Kirkwall, eventually. I think we're more-or-less directly beneath it, by a couple miles."

The Commander imagined herself rising directly up through the stone, all the way to the great cliffside city. A blink later, and she was back in the dim chamber, surrounded by Wardens and the darkspawn they'd sworn to defeat. "Me and mine will investigate," she declared, looking to the Architect and his minions. "You should leave one of your men nearby, in case we succeed ."

The monster considered her for a long moment. "I could never have guessed, all those years ago in the silver mines of Amaranthine, that you and I would one day stand at the precipice of history, Commander," he said. " If we succeed here, we shall end the Blights. There need be no more conflict between our peoples."

The Commander inclined her head. "That's my aim," she vowed. "And now I'm heading for daylight. Thank you for your help." Athadra hefted her blade higher and jerked her head at her Wardens before heading away from the chamber.

She made certain that they all turned left along the Road, away from the seductive pull, and drove them onward and upward for hours before they made their camp in a small cavern. All inquiries were turned away with a silent promise, made through hard stares, to explain more fully once they'd made the surface. Just before she settled in for an hour's rest, Athadra made an inquiry of her own. "You really think we can unwind the wards in Kirkwall?" She demanded of the silent Warden, who nodded more confidently now. The Commander smirked smirked to herself. "I think I might know of a man what can get your tongue back," she let on, "if we ask him nicely ."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to buttercup23 for beta-reading this beast of a story, and thanks to everyone who's reading along!


	56. A Champion's Concern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany finds herself in the Gallows yet again, being asked to play the templar for Kirkwall's benefit. Athadra and Carver accompany her, each for their own reasons.

The Gallows had never felt so strange to Carver, so vibrant and vivid, and yet so unwelcome at the same time. As soon as he'd stepped off the ferry from Kirkwall proper, the man had wanted to step right back on and go all the way back to Hightown...but then the Commander had  _looked_  at him, and he'd read the accusation of cowardice in her eyes, and so now he strolled into the open-air atrium behind the Champions of Kirkwall and Redcliffe, doing his best to remain unnoticed .

He still didn't understand his newfound power, really, but he could  _feel_  the raw magic of this place. The very stones themselves pulsed, and if he glanced too quickly, he could see the marble columns tracing afterimages in his vision. Merrill and Bethany had assured him that the only time they could sense his magic was when they were close enough to touch him, so the templars shouldn't give him any grief...especially given that he walked in the company of two of the most powerful mages in the city. Bethany had been invited-if that was the proper term-to an audience with Knight-Commander Meredith in order to discuss what she called a  _serious threat to Kirkwall's security_. The Warden-Commander of Ferelden, who'd only recently appeared on Bethany's doorstep, invited herself along. Carver hadn't been brave enough to ask her why, but he'd been foolish enough to insist on coming with them. He'd also noticed the new earring she wore just in front of the bend in her pointed ear, but the warrior hadn't dared to ask about  _that_ , either .

Luckily, or perhaps just prudently, none of the templars of the Gallows challenged either Champions' presence. The only templar to even acknowledge them was Ser Thrask, whom Carver and Bethany had assisted a time or two when they were poor refugees trying to keep one step ahead of the likes of him. The templar did little more than wave as Carver passed him in the atrium, after the Commander had already gone by.

One of the Tranquil mages directed Bethany to Meredith's office; Carver tried not to stare at the sunburst brand on the man's forehead, but he couldn't help shuddering at the sudden emptiness that stole over him when he met the branded mage's gaze . He hurried after his sister, up a small flight of stone steps and into a more cloistered wing of the complex. As they neared a nondescript wooden door, the warrior's ears strained, picking up on a few subtle notes, as if from a harp, that seemed to be coming from the inside. With a grimace, the man supposed that Meredith wasn't above having one or two of the mages play music for her amusement. When the door opened at Bethany's knock, however, Carver saw not a soul in the room other than the armoured woman .

Meredith's ice-blue eyes caught on the sight of the Commander, a spasm threatening to crack her steel visage, but the knight-commander recovered her demeanor in a mere instant. "Champion," she said, reverting her attention to Bethany. "Welcome...though I do not recall extending an invitation to your retinue."

Carver's eyes narrowed, for as the knight-commander turned her back on them, those harp notes thrummed a bit louder in his ears. If he wasn't terrified of drawing the woman's attention, he would've asked his sister about the sound. If she heard it, however, she made no mention as she spoke up. "Your letter mentioned a Champion," Bethany quipped, her voice like honey laced with vinegar. "There were two in my house when it arrived, and it did not specify which one you wanted to see, Knight-Commander ." She crossed her arms in front of her, leaving her hands less than three fingerwidths away from the sheaths of her swords, and Carver wondered what the knight-commander had done to earn his sister's ire .

Meredith continued to put a stack of parchment in order, still facing away from them. Carver tried to look anywhere else, but his eyes kept getting drawn to the hilt of the woman's odd broadsword; it appeared to be red steel at first glance, but a closer inspection revealed that even the sharp edge was as red as cherries. "And I suppose you find it amusing, bringing a known murderer of templars into this place," the knight-commander stated flatly, cutting the warrior's thoughts. "I will overlook the insult, Champion," Meredith went on, finally rounding on them, with the papers in one hand. "There was an incident-"

"Do you remember the boy?" the Commander butted in. "The one you sent to his death?" That earned her a glare from Knight-Commander Meredith, who seemed to think the question beneath her. "His name were Gideon, and he had a mother what became a lay sister as soon as he were recruited here. She told me to give you this." The elf reached into the front of her armour and produced a many-times-folded square of parchment which she held out between two fingers. "Read it after we've gone, if you've got the stomach."

The knight-commander's eyes blazed, but she snatched the proffered parchment all the same, and stowed it away. "Are you quite finished, Surana?"

"That ain't my name anymore," the Commander corrected her. "And you'd know that, if you bothered to answer my lieutenant's offers to treat with you. But since you've ignored Senior Warden Nathaniel, you get to deal with me instead." Carver could hear the smirk in her voice, and it frightened him, just a little. "Why did you revoke the pension that Viscount Dumar agreed to supply my local forces with?"

The directness of the accusation did not seem to stymie the knight-commander. "Such matters are under the purview of the Office of the Viscount; I suggest you direct your inquiries there, Serah Warden."

"I did," the Commander retorted. "The weak-kneed seneschal nearly shat himself...and he told me that the office needs an arse in it in order to resume such an expense ."

Bethany chuckled darkly. "And you have publicly refused to see the office filled," she chimed in. "So, when my dear friend brought this problem to my attention, where else should I have directed her but here?" She shrugged, leaning casually against the doorframe. "If you want my help with this  _incident_  of yours, Knight-Commander Meredith, you will resolve this. Today." The dark mirth had gone from her tone, replaced with steel as cold as Meredith's eyes.

Those eyes blazed again, and for just a moment, Carver fancied he saw them glowing as red as the woman's sword. He shrunk back and, thankfully, remained beneath Meredith's notice. "You would hold your city ransom to a murderer?" The knight-commander demanded. "Are you not Champion of this city?"

"Cade Arvale served as the Champion of Tantervale at the end of the Blessed Age, and into this one," Bethany replied. "He kept it out of Orlesian hands, but he terrorised the people of the city afterward, and made himself and his friends rich at their expense. To this day they whisper his name in fear and hate." She was near to snarling, now. "Do not presume to use my title against me, Meredith. I have already done more for this city than it deserves, and I've asked for nothing in return. Until now ."

Whatever issue had reduced Meredith to asking for Bethany's help in the first place must have been worth the indignity that she tried to hide behind her mask. "Name your price, then, Warden...and I will see what might be done."

The Commander gruffed a laugh. "Ten sovereigns per Warden, per month. There are three now, not including myself. That should cover their expenses."

"Very well," Meredith snapped, and Carver couldn't tell if she thought the cost too high or too low. "Have your lieutenant approach Seneschal Bran in one week's time; he should have the appropriate arrangements made by then."

"My thanks," the Commander replied, and it sounded like she might even have meant it. "I have but one more request," she pressed, and she continued before the knight-commander's annoyance could find its voice. "You have a templar in your employ named Cullen, who came from the Fereldan Circle some years back."

Something changed in Meredith's expression; she seemed nearly as intrigued as she was affronted. "Knight-Captain Cullen is my most loyal subordinate," she said, as if it were a boast. "What business do you have with him?"

"That's between us," the elf rebuffed her. "I just want to talk to him...I'll leave you to your business with Beth, and when I'm done with him, I'll walk out of this place ." That last statement was at least as much of a challenge as it was an assurance, Carver noticed.

Knight-Commander Meredith's nostrils flared and she shook her head. "As you say," she spat. "You can find his office at the end of the hall opposite this one, across the courtyard. If he is not present there, you will have to undertake a manual search." Her brow arched. "I trust you can find your way out of this office without further assistance." The Commander dipped her head and backed out through the open doorway. Rather than address the Champion of Kirkwall, however, Meredith's gaze lanced into Carver. "And what miserable petition have you for me, young man?"

The warrior's mouth hung open for a moment, before Bethany spoke up for him. "He's here with me," she allowed. "Now, what was it that needed my attention?"

Meredith's eyes lingered upon Carver for longer than he liked, and he got the sense that she knew something wasn't quite what it appeared, but after a moment the woman relented. "Walk with me, Champion," she commanded, stepping between Carver and his sister, out into the hall. "As I was attempting to say," she continued, leading the Hawkes toward what looked like an enclosed garden, "there has been an incident here at the Gallows. A number of phylacteries were destroyed, and several mages took the opportunity to escape." The knight-commander signalled for Bethany to precede her into the small courtyard, but she turned her shoulder to Carver, and didn't look to pay him any more heed. "We have already rounded up most of the fugitives, but I require your assistance in tracking down the last three."

Bethany's brow furrowed. "How did the phylacteries get destroyed?"

The knight-commander grimaced. "An insurrection," she admitted. "Several of my own templars orchestrated the escape," she went on, a tremor underlying her tone. "Presumably out of misplaced sympathy for the mages." Meredith glanced to the flagstones beneath their feet. "They turned their backs on their duty and endangered their charges." Her gaze quickly returned to Bethany; Carver flinched, just a bit, but his sister held steady. "As well as the city." When the Champion offered no response, the knight-commander continued. "Thankfully, most who escaped fled to their families, and offered us no resistance. The three who remain are proving…difficult."

"Since you're asking me," Bethany sighed, "I assume you don't think their families will talk openly to your templars." She grimaced, but Carver noticed that his sister had become slightly less strident in the Commander's absence. Even now, since she was so close, he didn't let himself think of her as  _Athadra_. "But I'm the Champion of Kirkwall," Bethany went on. "Who would turn me away at the door?"

"I see you have learned a bit of subtlety," Meredith observed, not without some semblance of approval. "The people of Kirkwall trust you, Champion. They will be more honest with you than they will be for us."

 _And whose fault is that_ , Carver would have asked, had Bethany not spoken for him once more. "I'll see what I can do," she sighed, and for once, the warrior did not envy her the attention.

Meredith actually  _smiled_  at her. "I am relieved," the knight-commander admitted. "I was expecting resistance after that debacle at the market, and the...unpleasantness, with your murderous acquaintance." She held out her own folded parchment. "Here are the reports on the apostates; you should find all the details you need within. Should you have any further inquiries, speak to my assistant, Elsa. She will provide you with whatever you need to know of the fugitives." When Bethany had taken the parchment, the knight-commander gave her another entreaty. "Talk to the mages' families, Champion. Learn where they are hiding, and find them before they do harm." She looked earnest. "You will see that imprisonment or death is, sometimes, the only kindness we can offer."

Carver had thought her almost motherly, for just an instant, before those last words came from the knight-commander's lips.

* * *

The note sat on Cullen's desk, buried beneath the latest recruitment rolls. He knew it was there, all the same, and it could not be ignored forever. It had been written in the knight-commander's own hand, delivered unopened by her Tranquil assistant. In it, Meredith requested that he  _look into_  the running of Kirkwall's civil guard force, with a strong implication that he find someone more amenable to the templars' prerogatives than Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen had proven herself to be . Perhaps she even wanted him to take the post himself; it would mean resigning his commission with the Order, at least formally, though Cullen suspected that he'd have to write the same reports to the knight-commander, even so.

But the knight-captain had other concerns, much closer to his official duties in the Gallows. He was in the middle of weeding through a list of his own men and women, people he'd come to know and trust over the past five years, many of whom had served in the Gallows before he'd come along. Cullen publicly supported Meredith; he  _knew_  the dangers of magic, and he was all too aware of just how badly even a single mage could turn, if not handled with enough care. Privately, however, he was beginning to wonder if the knight-commander's methods were inadvertently contributing to the very problems that she wanted so desperately to mitigate. This business with the phylacteries was but the latest signal that these doubts ran deeply in the other members of the Order.

A knock on the door stirred the knight-captain from his musings. "Enter," he bade, without rising from his seat.

The door opened, and then a voice from a life he'd thought forgotten rang out across the years. "Your hair's lighter than I remember."

The quill he'd been using to scratch out notes splintered in Cullen's grip, splashing ink over the templars' names. He didn't trust himself to turn, didn't want to look, in case he found a spectre of the girl in his memories rather than the flesh-and-blood woman that Athadra Surana had become. "It changed, as I recovered from my ordeal," he said lightly, laying the ruined pen aside and wiping his fingers clean on another sheet of parchment. "Though now I suspect more than a little of that is due to age."

"Be careful," the elf from his memories warned. "You're the same age as me, after all. Almost to the day." As she spoke, however, Cullen heard the timbre of experience in her voice, richer and rougher than it had been even when she'd saved him from Uldred's magical cage.

That gave Cullen the courage to face her, and when he did so, the sight took his breath away; she wore her curling hair in a loose tail, and the escaping hanks did nothing to cover the black ruin that her right ear had become, nor the splotches of pink flesh that crawled down her neck and disappeared beneath her armour. The scar beneath her right cheek was the same as he remembered, if a little faded. The elf's face held none of the shy curiosity that had first caught his attention, back in Ferelden's Circle Tower, nor a scintilla of the kindness that she'd always tried her best to hide . He couldn't tell if she'd truly shorn herself of it, or if she'd merely perfected the art of concealment. "I'm still prettier than you," Cullen managed, reviving an old tease that he'd given her once.

Athadra rewarded him with a lopsided smirk. "I knew  _that_  were true before I came through the door...but then again, I suppose it ain't that much to boast about, anymore." She moved out of the doorway, locking the door behind her and turning her back to a nearby corner, seemingly out of habit.

Cullen's lips parted as he searched for a proper reply. Despite the scars and the weight of years, the elven mage could  _still_  snatch out his tongue and replace it with a ball-bearing. "Would you...like to sit down?" He offered, reorienting his own chair so that she might take it, if she wished.

The Warden cocked her head. "Ever the gentleman," she observed, but she made no move to capitalise upon his hospitality. Her lips tipped into a frown. "Are you frightened of me, Cullen ?"

The question was such an abrupt change of subject that it took the knight-captain a moment to ensure he'd understood it. "I...I'm not certain," he admitted, as a compromise between the immediate options of  _Absolutely_  and  _Of course not_  that immediately sprang to mind. "I respect your abilities, Athadra; I'm certain that if I had been on the patrol at the Viscount's Keep that day, I would be a dead man right now." He leaned back against his desk, shaking his head at how needless that loss of life had been. "But you should know that I counseled the knight-commander against her course of action, and had you seen fit to surrender into her custody, I would have verified your identity straightaway."

Athadra's brows knitted and she sucked in a breath; she didn't seem to have expected that. "If I'd known you were here, then," she breathed, "and if I'd trusted Meredith's word...I might have acted differently." The Warden closed her eyes and gave a little shake of her head. "Do you trust her? Meredith?"

Cullen's nod would have been automatic, had the question been asked before that bloody morning in the courtyard of the Viscount's Keep. But ever since then, when she'd dismissed his concerns as too biased, Cullen had noticed the knight-commander's behaviour becoming more and more erratic with time. "I'm not sure," he repeated, with a grimace. It wasn't a  _no_ , but it still felt like a betrayal, all the same. "I trust that Meredith believes herself the judge of what is righteous, and I know she is incorruptible in the pursuit of that aim. Yet I fear that the knight-commander's goals and those of our Order may no longer coincide." He wasn't certain why he spoke so freely to the woman, the  _mage_ , the near-stranger...except that he had cared for her once, and failed her in more ways than he could ever count. He still occasionally wondered how their lives might have turned out differently if Drass had been assigned to her Harrowing and he to guard her cell, rather than the other way 'round .

The Warden had no concern for the knight-captain's private musings. "You once advocated the murder of all mages in the tower, guilty and innocent, even Irving." She held up a hand to forestall his reaction. "I know you suffered horrors, and I'm sorry that a demon used my face to taunt you," she insisted, glancing away from him. "Sorrier t han you probably know." Her blood-coloured eyes shone in the room's lamplight when she looked at him once more. "If the call were to come to annul this Circle, what would your advice be, Cullen?"

This time there was no hesitation. "I would counsel restraint," he said immediately. "There are protagonists and antagonists on both sides of the conflict; many templars and mages are working toward the same ends, to build and sustain this Circle in concord...but their task is upset by the power-hungry in both factions." His shoulders slumped. "I find myself caught between them, with the knight-commander's expectation that I will strike a balance, and her suspicion that behind every mage lies a demon, waiting for its chance to strike."

"You know she isn't wrong," Athadra observed. "I don't think the answer is locking us up, mind, but even I know that mages need to guard against possession. But Meredith's methods…"

"Meredith's methods might be bringing about the very thing she hopes to avoid," Cullen supplied, with a humourless laugh. "Don't think I have not had similar thoughts myself. But the more pertinent question is...does the knight-commander trust me any longer?" He shrugged. "I give counsel whenever it is sought. These days that is rare, and rarer still are the occasions in which Meredith heeds it."

"Be that as it might," the Warden let on, "I hope that  _I_ can trust  _you_...at least to be a voice of reason. If I had to wager, the mages here will need one, rather sooner than later."

The elf kicked off from the wall and turned to the door, but before she'd unlatched it, a question spilled from Cullen's lips. "Will I ever see you again, Athadra?" He'd seen too much in his life to blush any longer, even at the slight stab of pity he saw in the Warden's eyes .

"If you still pray," Athadra told him, "then pray you do not ." Then she was gone, and his heart hammered in his chest as powerfully as it had after their first-and last-kiss, stolen in the Circle Tower, on the eve of her Harrowing.

Though that girl was gone, Cullen reflected that a few bits of her still smoldered in the warrior that remained...whose kindness had driven her to intercede, in some small way, on behalf of a group of mages who would likely never know that she'd given them a single thought at all .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to buttercup23 for beta-reading this story, and to everyone who's reading along!


	57. O Brother, Where Art Thou

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany is once again selected to do the templars' business, but she soon discovers that the consortium of templars and mages who ostensibly seek harmony have resorted to some rather unscrupulous methods to try and gain her allegiance.

The first thing Bethany noticed, after she'd emerged from her room and ascertained that it was mid-morning, was the lack of Merrill's usual aura of power anywhere in the estate. It didn't concern her, terribly, especially when she learnt that Carver was gone as well; the Champion simply assumed that the two had gone out, since they'd left Paqua in Orana's care. Her Grey Warden appetite soon overrode any curiosity she might have had, however, and Bethany headed down to the kitchen once she'd thrown on a simple tunic and trousers.

Before she'd reached the bottom of the stairs, though, Bodahn stepped forward into Bethany's path. "Good morning, messere," he greeted, his smile seeming a bit strained. "There's been a...ahh...letter for you, while you slept ."

Her stomach growled audibly, which kept it from sinking. Letters were never good, of late. "Do you know who sent it, Bodahn?"

"Big steel man!" The exclamation came from under a table where Sandal was fumbling; the Champion hoped against hope that he hadn't found another salamander. "He wasn't very nice…"

Bodahn's smile took an apologetic turn. "He means a templar, messere, but it's not sealed the same way as Knight-Commander Meredith's missives have been before ."

Bethany hesitated for a moment, considering letting the vellum languish as she broke her fast, but there was no telling what mischief the templars and mages of the Gallows had got up to this time. With a frustrated sigh, she pushed her hunger aside and stalked over to her writing desk; the folded parchment was sealed in black wax with a three-serpent device, similar to First Enchanter Orsino's staff . She broke the seal with her thumb and scanned over the note, her eyes narrowing; the first enchanter heaped platitudes on her for nearly the entire page, and only in the last inch did he get around to admitting that the mages had been confined to their quarters and Orsino himself had been forbidden from traveling beyond the Gallows' main atrium. Apparently a templar sympathetic to Orsino's cause had smuggled the letter across the harbour earlier that morning .

_Damn him_ , Bethany seethed.  _To the Void with them both_. It apparently hadn't been enough that she'd had to kill two of the three fugitive mages, nor that she'd returned the last back to the Gallows herself . She'd told the knight-commander there and then that the Champion of Kirkwall was not a templar, and that Meredith would do well to remember that. Apparently Orsino hadn't gotten the same message.

Rather than toss the vellum into the fireplace and make for the kitchen, however, Bethany retreated back to her room and traded her simple houseclothes for the Mantle of the Champion. She wasn't sure where Athadra had gone off to , but she was quite sure she didn't want to know enough to hunt the other woman down, so the Commander would have to miss out on another visit to the Gallows. "Come on, Barcus," she called after her hound as she crossed the sitting room floor, heading for the estate's entrance. Bethany had no intention of going into the mages' prison entirely bereft of allies.

She took the Lowtown way to the docks and stopped off by the Hanged Man for good measure; Isabela was there, apparently intent on practicing her knife-throwing skills. The pirate hefted her blade high behind her ear, and a one-eyed man cowered against the wall, with a wooden cup of ale on his head . Bethany sidled up to the Rivaini and slid her ungloved fingers across the other woman's raised wrist. "What did that cup ever do to you, 'Bela?"

It was probably a mark of how familiar Bethany's touch was that Isabela hadn't stabbed her out of reflex. "Lost a bet," the pirate allowed, her gaze not wavering from the nervous man for an instant. "Now it needs to pay up ."

Bethany sucked on her bottom lip. "And how many people are wagering on this, I wonder?"

"Half the bar," Isabela boasted. "Why? Do you want in?"

The Champion was surprised by the snicker that jumped out of her throat, and she considered the poor man more thoroughly. "How much coin do you have riding on hitting the cup?"

The pirate made a thoughtful noise. "About five sovereigns," she estimated. "But I've got a side-bet for three that I take out his good eye, so it's really a win-win for me . Oy," she snapped at the man, whose trembling was beginning to spill the ale atop his head. "Hold steady!"

"How about...if you hit the cup, you come with me to the Gallows," Bethany mused, smirking to herself. "And if you hit his eye, you help me bring him to Anders' clinic ." The renegade mage had been absent of late, but he'd showed up at the estate the previous night, to do his monthly check-over of Paqua .

Isabela grunted. "Neither of those sound very fun," she sing-songed.

The Champion's grip tightened subtly on the pirate's wrist. "Of course it wouldn't be fun for you, 'Bela," she cooed. "It's  _my_  wager, after all." Bethany leaned in, her lips brushing over the pirate's earlobe. "And either way, we'll both need a bath afterward…"

"You make a compelling argument," the Rivaini admitted. "Alright...I accept. Now let go of my wrist, Hawke, so I can brown the bastard's trousers."

"For now," Bethany conceded, letting her fingers slip down the other woman's smooth forearm until they dropped off of the pad of her elbow. Metal flashed and a  _thud_  sounded wetly a heartbeat later, and a heartbeat after that, the one-eyed man collapsed in a shuddering heap; the neatly-impaled cup leaked a steady stream of ale over his head, and Isabela stalked around, collecting her winnings. "Gallows it is, then," Bethany sighed, unsure if she'd have rather dragged a blind man into Darktown . "Is Varric about?" She asked, scanning through the crowd for the crossbow-wielding businessman. "I'd have expected him to be all over this little show."

Isabela sighed happily, hefting a weighty coinpurse before she stowed it strategically down the front of her bodice. "No idea where the dwarf's gone off to. Maybe to visit his brother in the asylum?" She shrugged, clearly unruffled. "We'd best get off to the glowering fools before Kirkwall falls into the ocean around us," the pirate declared, moving to retrieve her dagger from the wall.

They took the ferry over the harbour; Isabela claimed that she wouldn't be able to resist taking her new ship out onto the open sea if she were unmoored, and she didn't yet have a full complement. Bethany suspected that last part was a lie, mostly for her benefit, since the pirate would have been long gone by now without the Champion's ever-fading attachment to her city.

The atmosphere in the Gallows was even more muted and constrained than usual. Only templars patrolled the staircases and hallways that led up to the atrium, and there weren't even the usual merchants set up in the courtyard to hawk their magical and mundane wares to curious visitors. Isabela made a snark about men in uniforms, but even her corrupting influence couldn't lighten Bethany's mood as she led the way to Orsino's office.

The man himself stood in front of his desk, looking careworn despite the fancy robes his office awarded him. "Thank you for coming, Champion," the first enchanter said, sparing her and Isabela a tired smile. "Few will associate with me now that I am the focus of Meredith's ire." His brows knitted, and he glanced down at his feet. "Which leaves me in a difficult position...for she is not entirely wrong."

" Even a mermaid-humping crazy clock is right twice a day ," Isabela drawled, stealing another snicker from Bethany.

Orsino turned his back on them, though whether it was to hide his humour or his frustration, Bethany couldn't tell. "I know some of my people are using dangerous means to oppose her," he went on. "But I cannot appeal to the templars' aid without making  _every_  mage a target."

Suddenly, the Champion's brief moment of levity evaporated. "And you want my help to weed out the mages that make you look bad," she sighed, shaking her head. "At least Meredith had the respect to honestly ask me to kill for her." If she hadn't been so hungry, Bethany might have felt like throwing up. "Is that what you want from me, Orsino?"

The first enchanter looked more than a little dismayed. "All I know is that there is a faction of rebel mages who sneak out of the Gallows at night...and that they're meeting in Hightown tonight. I just want you to investigate, Champion." He threw up his hands. "I'd go myself, but should Meredith learn that I've left the tower without permission, she'd claim it was  _proof of my involvement_ ," he drawled, making scare-quotes with his fingers. "Just learn the nature of this meeting," he begged her. "You needn't interrupt…unless you find proof of something sinister."

And there it was, Bethany knew. "I'll take that as a 'yes', then," she growled, and shook her head. "Don't worry about involving the templars," the Champion assured him. "I'll deal with it."

"I pray it is innocuous," Orsino allowed. "Or Meredith will have what she needs to justify the Right of Annulment at long last." The elf rose up to his full height and extended a hand. "You have my thanks, Champion. Please see this to a speedy resolution ."

Bethany took the man's hand, but she did not reply. Instead, the Champion stalked out of Orsino's office, and a fool's notion entered her head...the desire to march straight to Knight-Commander Meredith and throw this mess into her lap, since she had been its architect. The impulse passed after a moment, when she realised that Orsino was likely correct, and Meredith would see every mage in Kirkwall massacred for the crimes of a few.

"We  _definitely_  need a bath," Isabela sighed, as the ferryman pushed off of the Gallows' small dock. "Your place, or mine?"

"Yours," Bethany decided. "I'm afraid of any more letters waiting for me in Hightown."

* * *

Varric hadn't returned to the Hanged Man by the time dusk settled...or if he'd been, he'd gone again before Bethany and Isabela emerged from the pirate's room. Isabela even picked his lock, just to make sure, and the dwarf was nowhere to be found .

On a bit more than a whim, Bethany swung by the estate in Hightown, only to find that neither Merrill nor Carver had been by all day. Paqua was upset and the elven servants were doing their best to console her; Bodahn promised to remain on alert for any sign, and the Champion left him to manage her household.

Bethany was uneasy, but she was distracted by the task Orsino had given her. She and Isabela wandered through the streets of Hightown to see if they could find any sign of a secretive mage gathering. By chance, they neared the mansion that had once belonged to Danarius, and was now being thoroughly squatted by Fenris, who'd actually begun cleaning up the place now that its former owner was at the bottom of Kirkwall's harbour. The elf seemed more than happy to join the hunt for a cabal of apostates ; of his sister there was little sign, and Bethany did not presume to ask.

Finally, after another couple of hours of searching, Bethany and her companions happened upon an alleyway that was guarded by a couple of hooded men. They might simply have been thieves for all Bethany could tell at first glance, but as soon as one of the men caught sight of her, he sent up a cry. "It's the Champion!"

The other man tore off his hood, and Bethany recognised him as one of the templars she'd passed in the Gallows, earlier in the day. "We know you're spying for Orsino," he spat, and moved for his sword. "Fighters, to me! Everyone else, run for your lives!"

"They aren't cowardly," Fenris observed, as a half-dozen mages and templars spilled out of the alleyway. "I'll give them that."

Bethany screamed and pleaded and cajoled, but the fools kept coming at her. They wouldn't  _listen_...and so they died. Some died quickly, with a blade in their throats or fire on their flesh. Others died more slowly; the templars who broke and ran after trying, and failing, to still Bethany by draining her of mana died the slowest of all, from blood boiling in their veins. But every single conspirator who'd stood and fought was killed, while their less combative brethren fled away into the night.

Isabela and Fenris made quick work of looting the corpses of the foolish rebels, and the pirate found a half-charred note on one of the mages that pointed them to a secret warehouse in the docks where the rogue faction apparently tested any new recruit's loyalties.

Though she wanted to blast her way through the door, Bethany let Isabela pick their way into the warehouse, and they snuck onto the shadowy floor as best they could. In the distance, halfway to the building's wharf, Bethany spied a young-looking templar in a heated discussion with a bearded mage. The Champion strained her ears, but she could make out little more than murmurs, and she wished that Merrill were around to eavesdrop more effectivel y.

Bethany realised that Fenris could listen in as well as the Dalish elf, but her boot scraped over a pile of sand when she tried dodging between two wooden columns to reach the former slave, and the whispering mage caught sight of her. "I told you she was after us," he exclaimed. "We've got to fight!"

"No!" The Champion yelled, giving up on subterfuge and bulling out into the open. "Just listen to me!" In hindsight, she would admit that raising her bloodied sword at the pair had been a poor choice of punctuation for her demand.

The templar's eyes went wide. "No...not her!" He shook his head, backing away. "I can't do this!"

But the mage evidently took the Champion's stance as a threat. "To arms!" He called, and at least a dozen allies poured out of the warehouse's recesses. "We w ill not let her take us alive!"

"Then you will all die," Bethany pronounced, disgusted that she had to be involved in this affair in the first place; disgusted that Meredith and Orsino bloodied her hands without regard to how she might feel.

She did not attempt to bargain or reason with them, this time; she did not scream or plead for time; she did not hold her blood magic in reserve until the last moment. The Champion of Kirkwall and her companions made martyrs of all who fought. In the end, only that first templar remained, the one who'd cowered away at Bethany's appearance.

He cowered still, on the loading floor's far corner, and did not move as Bethany approached him. Her left arm still dripped with blood, from runes her iron glove had carved into her flesh. Fenris glared and kept his distance, but the Champion knew he would not voice his protest until he'd retreated to his mansion and fallen into his cups.

The templar hid his head in his hands, as though he could pretend that he hadn't seen Bethany working her illicit magic. "I told them not to do it," he whimpered. "I swear !"

Bethany blinked when he chanced a glance up at her, and she recognised the cut of his jaw and his sky-blue eyes. "I remember you," she breathed. "Didn't Carver and I save your life?" From a cabal of blood mages who were enacting a scheme to possess templars, and thereby fill Meredith's ranks with monsters.

"You did," the man confirmed. "I'm Keran." His voice cracked. "I tried to warn you, but Padric confined me here," he babbled. "I don't hold with kidnapping...not after what I went through. I still dream of what those blood mages did to me." He covered his face once more, unable to hold the woman's gaze.

The Champion had been calming down, even considering sheathing her weapons and healing the blood runes on her arm, but mention of kidnapping caused her to level her right-hand blade at the man instead. "What do you mean," she demanded, "about kidnapping?"

Keran swallowed audibly. "They said...you were getting too close, that you were in Meredith's pocket. They needed leverage."

"Who?" The question was a whisper in the darkness, but it was all Bethany could manage.

"Thrask," the templar gasped; it sounded like he was holding back tears. "He and Grace saw you going to meet with the knight-commander a week ago, and they saw your friend with you. The mundane ."

Ice slithered down Bethany's spine. "Carver," she whispered, almost in disbelief. "You've taken Carver." It was almost a laugh. "Did you steal Merrill as well?"

Keran lifted his head from between his knees and offered her a tentative glance. "I don't know that name," he admitted. "I do know that Thrask and Grace said they needed a hostage. Someone you cared about."

Isabela snorted. "I wonder if they were born that stupid, or if they just got hit on the head a lot as children ?"

The Champion didn't snicker, then. Instead she planted her boot firmly between the man's feet and brought the tip of her sword within a finger's breadth of his forehead. "You will tell me where they went," she informed him, even as her blood called out, begging for her to steal into his thoughts and take the information directly. Bethany refused, barely. "And then I will kill them."

Keran's eyes crossed as he tried to keep the sword's tip in view. "There are some ruins on the Wounded Coast," he croaked. "We have a...sort of...base, there." He swallowed again. "They should have just talked to you," he exclaimed. "I know you're a reasonable person...you  _have_  to see how dangerous Meredith's become."

"You're right about Meredith," Bethany agreed. "But you're wrong about me." She had to close her eyes against the blood pounding in her ears, the same blood cooling on her arm. "I was reasonable once. But you took my family from me, the only family I have." Her eyes opened slowly, and with great effort, the Champion sheathed her swords. "You've seen me do blood magic," she observed.

The templar blinked rapidly, holding up his hands. "I w-won't tell anyone, Champion," he stammered. "I swear!"

"I know," Bethany assured him, and she turned toward Isabela, uncertainty in her eyes. "Kill him for me?" The pirate hesitated for the space of a breath, her own eyes clouded. But then the Rivaini nodded, and Bethany heard the boy's protests get cut short as she traced over the runes in her flesh, erasing the evidence of her use of the forbidden art.

Fenris sneered at her from a far column. "You see again and again what magic leads to," he said. "I'll follow you out to the Wounded Coast only for the promise of killing more magicians and their templar thralls."

The Champion didn't trust herself to speak. Instead she closed her eyes and ignited the blood that she'd spilt, so that all of the corruption would burn away. After a few moments, when she was sure no rat or curious child could carry the taint back to Lowtown, she turned away and marched out of the warehouse without a backward glance.

It was nearly dawn when they made it out to the Wounded Coast, and in the grey light of the morning, Bethany followed her senses to the ancient, roofless Tevinter temple that held signatures of living magic. As she neared an outcropping of carved stone, the Champion recognised Merrill's aura, as well as Anders', but they seemed to overwhelm any other mages in the immediate vicinity.

Bethany approached the building with both of her swords drawn, but when she arrived, she nearly dropped her weapons from the shock of the sight that greeted her. Merrill was there, along with Anders and Varric, and Carver. Carver looked tired, but he smiled and held up a hand when he caught sight of her. All around them were human remains, shredded and rent and torn, limbs and organs strewn over the old temple's flagstones and benches. Most of the parts hardly seemed to have come from human origins .

"Typical," Fenris huffed. "Another blood mage has ruined my day." Without another word, he turned on his heel and stomped away.

Confusion gave way, in part, to relief, and Bethany rushed forward. "What happened here?"

Varric gruffed a laugh. "Blondie and I learned to never,  _ever_  piss Daisy off," he growled, mugging a grin at the Dalish elf.

Merrill's tattooed cheeks coloured. "Hush, Varric," she admonished. "You're making me blush!"

The dwarf held up his hands, and Bethany glanced at Anders. "Varric and I were playing cards this morning," the renegade mage let on. "Or...I guess, yesterday morning, when Merrill showed up at the Hanged Man saying that something was very wrong." The man looked haunted...even more so than usual, lately. He stood the farthest away from the carnage, and couldn't bring himself to look at either Merrill or Carver. "She led us all around the city, interrogating apostates, until one of them told us about this place."

Bethany's brows knitted as she considered her brother and his partner. "Why didn't you come to me?"

"You were sleeping," Merrill explained. "And at first I thought Carver was just out for a walk, or maybe drinking, like he used to, so I went to the Hanged Man." She shrugged and glanced at the man. "But then he wasn't there...and something just felt  _wrong_. I could tell he was in danger, because of the bonding ritual we did. If he'd been born a mage, I probably could have used it to track him down directly...but I had to improvise."

Carver rolled his eyes. "Feel free to keep talking about me like I'm not here," he groaned. "All of you."

A smile stole over the Champion's lips. "If there were any doubt about it being really you, dear brother…" She teased him, shaking her head. Another survey of the scene gave her pause. Bodies she could have explained, but Bethany doubted even her title of Champion could protect her friends from facing the consequences of what had happened here. "Did anyone see you?"

"Not anybody alive," Varric supplied. "And I vote we keep it that way."

Nobody else had any objections, and so together, the Champion and her companions made their way back to Kirkwall by the cool light of the rising sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to buttercup23 for her excellent beta-reading, and to everyone who's reading along!


	58. The Gift Of Gab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Commander of the Grey has one last job for an old recruit, but can he be persuaded?

It had been over one month, as the humans marked time, since the Grey Wardens had offered her a third chance at life. Nearly that much time had passed since their Commander had suggested that the restoration of her tongue might be possible, though the human  _saarebas_  who was supposedly capable of the feat had been frustratingly difficult to find. Yet she was patient; she'd spent most of her life as a weapon, sharpening herself and waiting for others to wield her, so patience was a skill finely-honed of necessity. She was a weapon still, but a weapon with a will, able to sleep and eat and dream and read as she liked, so long as she practiced battlecraft and obeyed the Commander's orders, which were rare and narrowly given.

Reading presented the greatest pleasure for her, but also the greatest challenge; though she could comprehend the barbaric language of the  _bas_ , and she could have even spoken it had she a tongue in her mouth, she could neither read nor write in the local script. This made communication a one-way endeavour, for the most part. Owing to their link through the Commander's blood, she could pass exceedingly simple messages directly into the elf's mind on occasion, but both women were too powerful for their blood to mix peacefully. None of the Grey Wardens had the time to teach her the letters of the King's Tongue, and so she waited, training in the Wardens' compound in Lowtown, and she considered the task that the Commander had set her, of unraveling the ward scheme that seemed to have been built into Kirkwall's very foundations.

While she could not speak, she could still learn. Travel was only effective at night; the one and only time she'd made a daytime appearance, a riot had nearly broken out in the narrow streets, as the  _bas_  were still frightened of the Qunari. Even if she'd had a tongue to tell them, she knew they would not understand that she was not Qunari, and it was not amongst her duties to correct their misapprehension. So now she stalked through Kirkwall's laneways and plazas in the dark of night, which gave her ample opportunities to hone her combat skills as well as investigate the magical threads woven through the city. In her  _karataam_ , she had been denied any tools to focus her energy, relying only upon her hands and her mind and, when she had it, her tongue, to shape and guide her magical attacks. Now she could fight with a broadsword in her right hand and a spiked stave in her left, both crafted to focus mana. Instead of a collar on her shoulders, she wore proper armour, fitted to her stocky frame and decorated with the emblems that kept the human equivalents of  _arvaarad_  from trying to apprehend her.

This night, she stood in front of the great golden doors of the city's primary temple. There were many threads in the great knot of power that ran through Kirkwall, and most of them-perhaps all of them-ran through this building. She would need to enter it to be certain, but she hypothesised that this was a ward nexus, integral for the maintenance of the ancient prison that extended for miles beneath their feet. A human  _arvaarad_ , one of the templars, glared at her from his station in front of the ornate portal to his place of worship. He did not appear amenable to her entry, and she understood that killing him would not please the Commander.

As though drawn by the thought, she felt a familiar tingle in her blood, the intimate brush of her Commander. She did not turn as the elf emerged from a shadowed alcove. "Been looking for you," the Commander said, without preamble. "He's back." That earned the woman a quicksilver glance, and she read a hint of triumph in the Commander's face. "Come on."

The road to the sewers was long, but empty of vagabonds. Apparently even criminals were learning to avoid the blue griffon device, at least when one of the wearers was a one-eared elf. Thus it felt like hardly any time at all before her nose was assaulted by the city's foul detritus. The Commander guided her through narrow passageways and around piles of filth, all the way to a shabby wooden door set into a slapped-together wall. A crimson lantern hung above it, glowing dully.

"He's not fled," the Commander mused, thoughtfully. "That's a good sign."

She sensed another Warden beyond the wall, one with a great deal of magic...enough to rival the Commander's, or even her own, in its own way. When the Commander pushed open the door, she discovered the source of all that power; the man within stood ready with a stave of his own, his skin creased with veins of glowing blue, his eyes a portal to the spirits' realm.

"What do you want?" He snarled, his voice echoing in two timbres. "Have you come to kill me at last?"

"Hardly," the Commander retorted, seemingly unconcerned. The elf nodded her in, and when three Grey Wardens filled the room, the door was firmly closed. "And I'm still your Commander, even if I've given you a wide latitude on your mission here," she went on, her tone registering only slight disapproval. "Now, we can have a civil conversation, or I can cut off your head and mount it on the front door. You choose."

The demon-haunted man sunk deeper into his crouch, and she feared that he might go with the Commander's second option, but after a moment all of the combativeness seemed to flee him. The light disappeared from his flesh, the blue retreated to his irises, which faded to a rich brown, and he leaned into his stave as though it were a cruch. "What...what can I do for you, Commander?"

"A great deal, I hope," the Commander replied. "First, I have a new recruit who happens to be missing a tongue...a tongue that I have need of."

She stood straighter under the man's scrutiny, her clipped horns just brushing the chamber's earthen ceiling. "You're a strong one, aren't you?" He observed. "What made you lose your tongue, I wonder?" When she merely glowered at him, he smirked and gestured to a broad table. "Come and lie down so that I can have a look and see what we're dealing with, here."

With a questioning glance to the Commander, who nodded, she unshouldered her weapons and moved to the table. She eased herself down onto her back, keeping her feet firmly planted on the floor, and she opened her mouth when he prompted her to. An orb of light sprang from his fingertip, a summoned sprite, which flitted between her lips and zipped around inside her mouth. "Hmm...they really did take a lot," he breathed, sounding as though he hadn't slept in a year. "Reattachment is always preferable to reconstruction…"

A snort sounded near the door. "I can go see if the refugees have any to spare," the Commander offered, earning herself a pointed glare from the man.

"That won't be necessary," he insisted. "I can do it...but it will take time. An hour, at least. Perhaps two." The  _saarebas_  looked down at her, his eyes needlessly gentle. "There will be quite a lot of pain for that time," he warned. "It may even be worse than losing it in the first place."

"She can handle it," the Commander supplied.

She offered a nod of her own and opened her mouth wider, eager for the procedure to begin. The man grimaced, but he offered no more prevarication. Instead he fetched a stiletto, cleansing the thin blade with fire and cooling it with ice. "Hold  _very_  still," he warned her, and she gripped the sides of the table as he guided the stiletto into her mouth.

It nearly brushed the back of her throat, all the way to the stub of muscle that  _arvaarad's_  pincers had not managed to scrape away. Her heart beat a half-tick faster at that first, tickling brush of metal; the sensation soon wrenched into a whirlwind of fire that crawled down her throat and emptied her lungs in a guttural hiss. Just as the  _saarebas_  had warned, she felt those scalding pincers mirrored in her memory, and she had to dig trenches into the underside of the table with her fingernails to keep from lashing out at the man.

The feeling only worsened with time; when  _arvaarad_  had pulled out her tongue in the first place, the pain had been intense but brief. Now it seemed that the first moment of severance was drawing out interminably. Blood soon filled her mouth, forcing her to swallow every few minutes. Through the agony, though, she noticed that swallowing grew easier each time it was required, and that helped her to bull through the pain like a stubborn  _dathrassi_. At the end of the first hour the  _saarebas_  removed his stiletto, giving her a few moments' reprieve, before he resumed the procedure with a thicker blade. He coaxed flesh onto her tongue a decimeter at a time and then seemed to cut half of the new growth away before healing it anew, and each time made her relive the first severance anew. Another half an hour passed before he made the final cut, and before he could renew the torment of healing, she grabbed his wrist with bloodied fingertips and forced his hand away.

With a nod, the  _saarebas_  retreated. It took her a few more minutes of lying on the table to recover her strength, but at length she sat up and finished healing her tongue and hands by herself. "Thank you," she rasped, after twisting and flexing the renewed muscle. The tip was a bit blunter than it had been, but she could suffer that. "I shall take care to keep the organ intact henceforth."

"Don't mention it," the  _saarebas_  dismissed. "Just how  _did_  you lose it in the first place? By doing blood magic?"

She shook her head slowly. "Blood magic is not forbidden by the Qun," she informed him. "You have just witnessed the cause of my amputation. Qunari are forbidden to have any magic whatsoever touch them;  _saarebas_  are weapons, but also of the Qun. Therefore any kind of augmentation, any healing, is prohibited. Communing with spirits is especially frowned upon." She offered him a wry smile at that.

The man scoffed his horror away. "At least the Qun and the Chantry have that in common, it seems," he sighed, and she did not know whether or not he found this coincidence agreeable. "What is your name?"

The Commander's attention focused on her, curiosity plain on the elf's face once the man had spoken his question.

She closed her eyes. "Qunari have no names as you understand the term," she said, slowly, her tongue still aching. "I had a label that designated my breeding and education; I was to be  _tamassran_ , before my magic became known." The irony was not lost upon her, that she would have been a member of  _those who speak_ , but she did not expect either of the others to understand.

The Commander spoke up. "But you ain't Qunari any longer," she pointed out. "And you disagreed with being called  _Tal-Vashoth_. So what are you?"

She took a deep breath and looked at her interrogators, human and elven. "I am Suredat-an," she announced, taking the name as it came to mind. "One who remembers." She remembered a time before her magic, and she remembered her secret scrolls that spoke of a time before Koslun, when her people were free to doubt and to be weak and to fail. She remembered that her people were once called  _Kossith_ , before the Qun sought to erase them. Pain...that, she remembered in abundance. "You may call me this, Commander." Then her quicksilver eyes focused on the  _saarebas_  who'd recovered her ability to speak. "What may I call you?"

"Anders," the man supplied; he'd collapsed into a chair, and seemed to be making a study of his boots.

The Commander did not move from her perch, her shoulders pressed back against the cave's door. "What have you learnt in your time in Kirkwall, Suredat-an? Are the wards woven here?"

Suredat-an nodded curtly. "Magic was involved in every level of the city's construction; I believe the very designs of the streets had to have some arcane purpose to them. The signs are subtle, difficult to detect for someone not familiar with Tevinter magic and building methods."

The elf made a thoughtful noise as she considered. "But why would they imprison her beneath the city in the first place? Weren't they worshipping her?"

Anders recovered his composure enough to register his curiosity. "What are you two talking about? Who imprisoned whom, where?"

The Kossith kept her silence; it was not her place to reveal the Commander's plan. She knew that the other Grey Warden, the human called Nathaniel, disagreed with it viscerally...but even he would not betray the elf's trust, nor contradict her judgment. The Commander gave the healer a measured look. "Are you certain you want to know?"

"You said it yourself," the  _saarebas_  answered. "I'm still a Warden. If you've a scheme that involves Kirkwall, I would hear it."

The Commander kicked off from the door, skirting over to look out upon the gap in the wall that admitted a view of the harbour and its opposing cliffside. "Miles below our feet," the elf breathed, so that even Suredat-an had difficulty hearing her, "there lies a chamber sealed with magic on all sides, save downward. The wards of the seals seem to have been woven from somewhere in this city, and those wards must be unwound in order to release the chamber's captive." The Commander turned her head slightly, so that her good ear faced backward into the room. "The magisters of old Tevinter called this captive Lusacan; I aim to touch her."

Silence met the woman's proclamation, a silence that lasted for half a minute. "You…" Anders whispered, exhausted. "You're mad...you're actually trying to raise an Archdemon." He didn't sound as though he believed the words, even as he said them.

"Not one," the Commander corrected him, turning more resolutely away once more. "Orlesian Wardens have located Razikale, and the First Warden has commanded them to wake her, upon word of my success here."

"You're mad," the healer repeated, with a bit more passion. "You're a Grey Warden; it's your duty to end Blights, not begin them!" He rose to his feet, holding his stave firmly against the ground. "You let me come here to rescue Karl, and to sow discord amongst the templars. We spoke of freeing mages, of building a new Thedas, where none need live in fear because of the way they were born-"

The Commander spun around, a half-mad look in her crimson eyes. "And none of that will matter if the next Blight ain't for six hundred years and there ain't any more Grey Wardens left to fight it!" She yelled, her voice shaking. "I  _know_  how mad it is, and I know how dangerous, Anders. "I would see every single darkspawn in Thedas burnt to cinders, above ground and below. They've not yet recovered from the last Blight, and if we can raise the last two Old Gods, we can pull what remains to the surface and fight them on open ground, with every nation at our backs." She took a single step forward, and the Kossith saw Anders flinching backward. "It took years for Urthemiel to come out from under the ground, once the Architect woke her up; it may take longer for the last two. But there  _will_  be another Blight," the elf snarled. "I would see it happen in a decade, rather than in half a thousand years, when the Wardens aren't even a memory anymore and the bloody Qunari have taken over the continent." Her chest heaved beneath her plate, as though she'd just run a charge.

Slowly, Anders lowered himself back down into his chair, but he did not relinquish his grip on the stave. "Completely mad," he sighed. "If anyone discovers this plan...all of those nations at your back will be well-placed to put a knife in it."

"They'll be at your back, too," the Commander let on, much more quietly. "You saw how well the mages were received in Ferelden, after their role in ending the Blight. Imagine what we could achieve when the prisoners in the White Spire are set loose in defence of their people? When we've broken the templars here in Kirkwall beyond repair, and the ones elsewhere in Thedas are too busy fighting darkspawn to keep stealing mages and locking them away?"

The healer did not seem to have an answer for that, though he did not appear to accept it. When a few heartbeats passed without reply, Suredat-an spoke up once again. "I am almost certain that the wards have a nexus in the great temple in Hightown."

That drew a response from the man at last. "The Chantry?" He seemed horrified and curious, at once. "I've been there hundreds of times...it's no more magical than the rest of the city."

"Indeed," Suredat-an agreed. "As I said, arcane energy permeates all through Kirkwall, such that even those attuned to it are likely to tune it out after enough time has passed within the mesh. Yet the energy of that building is arranged differently...the only place that feels similar to me is the great tower across the Harbour. I require more investigation of both structures to be entirely certain."

"You can't be serious," Anders protested. "The Gallows and the Chantry weren't built to imprison an Old God!"

The Commander's face grew thoughtful. "How do you know that, Anders?" Her lips tipped into a frown. "Both buildings were started before the city fell out of the Imperium's hands. The Chantry were more than half built already when the Orlesians finished it and repurposed the structure to your Maker. Who's to say what magic the magisters put into their designs?" She shook her head and glanced to the Kossith Warden. "In any case, I can't let you verify your suspicions, Suredat-an." The healer breathed a sigh, and appeared ready to praise this breakthrough of reason, when the Commander's gaze cut back to him. "You were right; if they suspect Warden involvement, all of my plans could come to naught. But a rebel mage, an apostate fighting a guerilla war against the templars...that fits."

Anders' face twisted into a rictus of incredulity. "You want  _me_  to survey the Chantry?"

"No," the Commander replied, a cruel light dancing in her eyes. "I want you to destroy it, and claim it as the first blow in the war Meredith's been stoking."

Incredulity bled into horror, and the healer pushed back further in his chair, his head shaking. "You really are insane," he whimpered. "Crazed. Innocent people live in that building, men and women who've never brought harm to anyone. Grand Cleric Elthina hardly ever leaves." Anders gulped air, and for the first time all night, he looked truly afraid. "There is no justice in killing them, Commander."

The Commander's scarred face twisted into a grimace. "How innocent are they, really?" She spat. "No more or less innocent than the templars that the Chantry trains up from little boys; they all stand by while those with power enslave those without. You know this better than I do, Anders. They buy their innocence at the cost of our freedom, little better than the Qunari." Over his continued objections, the elf eyed Suredat-an. "Destroying the building should collapse the ward scheme, correct?"

The Kossith mulled on the matter for a moment. "If it is as complex as it seems, that may not be sufficient...but if there is another nexus, it will be in the tower you call the Gallows. With the temple in ruins, unweaving the ward from the tower should be simple enough for me to accomplish."

"Good," the Commander weighed in. "With the Chantry gone and the Grand Cleric dead, Meredith is all but certain to call for the Right of Annulment."

Anders sniffed, evidently holding back tears. "And so you would doom all of the mages that you claim to champion?"

The elf's grimace morphed into a dark smirk. "I would have them fight to throw off their chains, and I will fight with them, at Beth's invitation. When we've killed Meredith and broken the templars, we'll flee Kirkwall, and you'll be free to take the fight to the other Circles. That'll take all eyes off of the Wardens while the Archdemons gather their strength."

The healer still shook his head, but he seemed to be arguing with himself, now. "It will be years of war between templar and mage," he observed. "All over Thedas, if you have your way." His eyes turned up, offering something of a challenge to the Commander. "What if I refuse?"

The Commander actually smiled, as though sensing she'd already won. "Then I'll kill you," she promised him. "And find someone more amenable."

"I'm not afraid of dying," Anders proclaimed.

The elf nodded. "But you  _are_  afraid of dying a failure," she observed. "You're afraid of all of the Circles in Thedas getting annulled, with no one to raise the standard in their defence. And you're the only mage I trust to see it through, to give everything they have. To do whatever's necessary to keep the fight going."

"Until the darkspawn come," the healer growled. "And then what?"

"And then," the Commander breathed, "the mages and the Wardens work together to end the last Blight, once and for all." More silence met her optimism, and she gruffed a laugh. "Or you'll die tonight, and when the time comes, there may not be any mages left in Thedas. You know I don't want that, Anders. So I'll have your answer. Which is it to be?"

The healer gripped his stave so desperately that Suredat-an heard the wood creak faintly beneath his hands, and for just a moment, she didn't think that she imagined the strange tinge of blue that stole over the whites of the man's eyes. She eased herself to her feet, anticipating his refusal, preparing to become a weapon once more. But then all of the consternation drained from Anders; he threw his stave down and hunched over in his chair, his shoulders shaking in silent sobs. "Yes," he croaked, thickly. When his head lifted, his face was bereft of any emotion. "But you will stand against Meredith in the fight to come. She will  _not_  extirpate the Circle because of your actions, taken through my hands."

The Commander's scarred cheek dimpled with her grin. "I'll kill the woman myself," she vowed. "Thank you, Anders. I'm aware of how difficult it is to accept...and I promise, I'll never ask you for anything else, as long as I live."

Anders didn't see fit to respond to the Commander's gratitude. "How am I to accomplish this thing?" He demanded, looking from one Warden to the other. "As I remember, it took barrels of Dworkin's powder to make an explosion worthy of shattering a building like the Chantry. Even if I could sneak past the templar guard they've set up at night, there's no way I could smuggle enough of it in without being detected, even if I knew how to make it."

Suredat-an blinked, curious. "You will have to tell me of this powder, Commander," she said. "Is it based upon  _gaatlok_?"

"No," the elf informed her. "Though the dwarf, Dworkin, has had to flee Qunari assassins who believe that it was." She heaved a breath, her brows knitting. "Could we dig secretly into the foundations?"

"I believe I can help," the Kossith offered. "I know the recipe for making  _gaatlok_ , and I know how to modify it with lyrium and kinetic magic." She felt her lips curving into a smile. "If you gather the ingredients, healer, and inspect the temple more thoroughly, I believe I could help you construct a small package that would suit the Commander's purpose nicely."

The man looked far less than pleased that his last objection had been circumvented, but he did not recant his oath. "Very well," he conceded. "Tell me what I should do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to my wonderful eta-reader, buttercup23! And to everyone who's reading along!


	59. Free As A Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last mission, one last fight. Meredith and Orsino seem intent on tearing the city down between them, but Anders' apparent machinations give them a moment of pause. Rather than finding a common enemy in the apostate, however, the Circle's representatives force Bethany to choose between them.

Isabela's legs swung as she sat on the otherwise-empty writing desk, the soles of her boots just barely skimming the tiled floor. "You're right," she mused, gazing into the fire. "Meredith's letters  _do_  burn more prettily than Orsino's. Do you think she sprinkles rosewater on them, or something?"

Bethany watched one of the burly Orlesian crewmen lug the last sack of food from the pantry. She thought his name was probably  _Jacques_ , or maybe  _Jean_ , but she knew he'd already told her earlier in the evening and she was too embarrassed to ask him again. "Hmm?" She blinked, glancing over at the pirate captain. "What did you say?"

Isabela rolled her eyes and hopped up from the desk. "Stop worrying," she admonished, swaggering closer and throwing an arm around Bethany's shoulders. "The elves are ready to go, Merrill and Carver have the little eyas all packed up. By this time tomorrow we'll be over the horizon." Her enthusiasm was almost innocent, in its way.

The Champion's smile was weak, tinged with her doubts. After they'd all come back from rescuing Carver, she'd written the knight-commander and the first enchanter each a short note, advising them to settle their differences without involving her and her family. She'd promised to burn, unopened, any missives that they sent her after that...which hadn't stopped them from coming, nearly every day. Today she'd received two from Orsino and one from Meredith. "It's just difficult to believe we're actually going to go," Bethany breathed. When Isabela's brow quirked, the Champion leaned in, brushing her nose across the other woman's cheek. "We  _are_  going, though."

"You can bet your supple arse we are," the captain shot back, and her grin must have leapt through the air, for Bethany's cheeks ached with the sudden force of her smile.

Which dropped the instant she turned to the anteroom door and saw Sebastian Vael filling it, rather than one of Isabela's sailors. It might have been Bodahn, coming for one last goodbye, though he and Sandal had cleared out earlier in the day. The man looked about the stripped room, now as bare of decoration as the estate's foyer, with not even a quill left on the desk or a book on the shelves. "You've redecorated," the archer ventured, and then he seemed to notice Isabela's presence. "Bethany, I wonder if we might have a private word," he drawled, in his Starkhaven accent. "There's a bit of an incident unfolding that you should be aware of."

The Champion turned more fully toward the man, her arms crossing in front of her chest, though her swords and armour were still on their stand in her bedroom. "The only thing that's my concern tonight is how much of my silverware the sailors will spirit away before I board the  _Falcon's Wing_ ," she told him.

Her reply took him aback. "You're...going on a trip? While Kirkwall teeters on the edge of chaos around you?"

Bethany shrugged. "You could say that," she conceded. "Not sure when I'll be coming back, though."

Isabela cocked her hip, challenging the interloper with a smirk. "This side of 'never' isn't too likely," she supplied.

Sebastian's lips parted and he blinked rapidly. "You're abandoning the city," he stated flatly, and then anger washed over his face. "You can't! You've a duty to these people, Bethany!"

The Champion's eyes narrowed. "People I don't frequently associate with tend to call me  _Hawke_ ," she observed. "We've done each other a few favours over the years, Serah Vael. Do not make more of that relationship than there is."

"They're at each other's throats right now!" Sebastian moaned. "The knight-commander and Orsino, right on the Lowtown steps. The first enchanter has a squad of mages, and Knight-Commander Meredith is blocking his way to the Chantry with a phalanx of templars. If nothing's done, there  _will_  be bloodshed."

 _If you do nothing_ , he was telling her,  _people will die_. Isabela evidently read the man's meaning just as well. "None of that is Beth's fault," she declared. "She's already done more for the both of them than either of the bastards deserve; if they want to tear the place to pieces, it shouldn't be up to her to stop them."

A wave of gratitude rose within the Champion, and if Sebastian hadn't been looking on, she would have wrapped the pirate up in a proper kiss. The Chantryman was there in front of them, however, and he didn't seem impressed with the Rivaini's selfishness. "Bethany," he began, and winced away from her sharp look. "Hawke," he amended, "you may think I've no right to ask you this, but I beg you. Guard-Captain Aveline is already on the way, but if she stands between the lions, I fear she'll be ripped to pieces." He was beginning to look desperate. "In Andraste's name, you served with the woman! You count her as a friend! Surely she deserves more than your silence. If you won't do it for me nor this city, nor even for the Maker Himself, don't let your friend throw her life away."

She was tempted to, more even than she cared to admit. Bethany hadn't always agreed with Aveline, but in the years since Leandra's murder, and especially since the trip to the Tevinter Imperium, the Champion and the guard-captain had reached a level of cordiality that was rare. The guardswoman had known Bethany for longer than either one had been in Kirkwall, after all, so Bethany's status didn't act as a barrier to friendship...and Aveline was far less likely than any of Bethany's other friends to cheat her at cards. "Get out," she told Sebastian, and when he raised his voice in protest, she physically pushed him backward. "I will do this one last favour, for Aveline," Bethany conceded. "Go try to help, and I'll be along shortly."

The man recovered from his stumble, mumbling his thanks, and he disappeared from the anteroom at a jog. Bethany turned, catching Isabela's uncertain gaze. "Beth…"

"Go get the others," Bethany instructed coolly. "Varric, Fenris. Anders, if you can find him in time. We're leaving tonight, one way or another." Isabela drew herself up and nodded. Then, out of nowhere, she crushed Bethany in a sudden hug and planted a kiss to the base of her jaw, breathing three one-syllable words just beneath Bethany's hearing. The Champion's arms locked around the pirate's shoulders for a moment, and she pressed her lips to the side of the woman's head.  _I love you too_ , Bethany mouthed. "Meet me at the Lowtown steps," she said instead, before she pulled away and mounted the stairs to the estate's second level for what was almost certain to be the final time.

Merrill stood at the top of the stairs, working herself into her boots. "I'm coming, too," the Dalish elf insisted. "Carver's going to take Paqua, Meraxa, and Orana down to the docks to wait for us."

Bethany hesitated for just a moment. "I'll see you downstairs," she vowed, and then stalked into her windowless cavern of a bedroom. It had been stripped as well, most of the furnishings already in Isabela's cabin. The Champion had intended to leave her armour here for others to find, but it seemed that fate would insist that she carry a bit of Kirkwall with her wherever she wound up. The leather and chainmail fit her just as snugly as always, and despite the month of peace, Bethany had kept her swords honed out of habit and paranoia that a day such as this would come. Working her right forearm into the glove, with its long iron talons, Bethany did her best to close her fist. She hardly felt the punch she gave her wall, though the metal left an indent in the plaster. If not for the continuing presence of her brother, niece, and their servants, the Champion might have left a fireball in her wake as she trudged from the room.

Merrill nodded encouragement when Bethany reached the impoverished sitting room, and Barcus fell in beside the mages without hesitation. The outside air was cool for Bloomingtide, yet Hightown's streets were as busy as they always were just past dusk, before the market square and the Chantry closed for the night. Bethany spied the top of the Chantry on her way to the Lowtown steps; the building stood the tallest in Kirkwall, visible from nearly anywhere in Hightown. A fresh stab of annoyance lanced through the Champion's mind, for she knew that the Grand Cleric was warm and well-fed in the tower's heart, possibly even unaware of the deadly situation unfolding less than a mile away. Though if Sebastian were still acting as Elthina's agent, which Bethany had no reason to doubt, it was also possible that the woman was all too aware of the conflagration...and had chosen Bethany to intercede, one last time.

With a grimace, the Champion broke into a jog, reaching the top of the long stone stairway that served as the main connection between Hightown and Lowtown. Already she could see two groups amassed at the foot of the steps. She and Merrill skipped down the stairs, with Barcus at their heels, and if the Champion did not draw her swords, it was not out of a lack of desire. Meredith's voice rose on the evening air. "...I will have the tower searched!" She declared. "Top to bottom!" Bethany saw no sign of Sebastian anywhere.

Orsino was already snarling. "You cannot do that!" He spat. "You have no right!"

By now, Bethany was close enough to see the knight-commander gesticulate wildly. "I have every right!" Meredith proclaimed. "You are harboring blood mages, and I intend to root them out, before they infect this city!"

"Blood magic," the first enchanter sneered, throwing up his hands. "Where do you  _not_  see blood magic?" He demanded. "My people cannot sneeze without you accusing them of corruption!"

The knight-commander's hand clenched into a fist. "Do not trifle with me,  _mage_ ," she warned. "My patience is at an end."

The greying elf shook his head. "A wonder that I never saw it begin."

Bethany spied movement from farther in Lowtown, and she nearly sighed in relief to see Isabela and Aveline marching together with Varric and Fenris, with Donnic and a dozen of the city guard at their flanks. Orsino and Meredith, backed by their own allies, seemed oblivious to their newly-enlarged audience. The Champion announced her own presence by leaping down the last five steps and landing nearly perfectly between the knight-commander and the first enchanter. "Stop this madness," she snapped, straightening up and hooking her thumbs over the hilts of her longswords. "Both of you."

Meredith's eyes went wide, but she did not stagger back. "This does not involve you, Champion," she said. "A fact which you yourself have made perfectly clear."

"I called her here," Orsino claimed, which explained the contents of at least one of the letters that Bethany had thrown into the fire. "I think the people deserve to know just what you've done."

The knight-commander leaned sideways, shoving an accusing finger at the mage. "What I have done," she began, "is protect the people of this city, time and again. What I have done," she went on, through clenched teeth, "is protect you mages from your curse and your own stupidity." Bethany was not certain that Meredith was exempting her from that declaration, which did little to salvage her opinion of the knight-commander. The Champion moved to join her allies, with Merrill and Barcus coming to stand by her side, as Meredith finally turned to address the small crowd. "And I will not stop doing it. I will not lower our guard; I dare not!"

Bethany's eyes narrowed; she'd seen Meredith's convictions, and she'd also dealt with mages who seemed intent on justifying the worst of them. "Is there any truth to what she's saying?" She asked of Orsino.

The elf snorted. "These are only her latest accusations, nothing more," he sighed. "And what if she does not find what she is looking for? How much further will she go to root out something that isn't there?"

Knight-Commander Meredith gave Orsino a haughty stare. "The Champion knows better than anyone how deep the Circle's corruption goes," she claimed, and then turned back to Bethany, as though for support. "I must find the source!"

The Champion's eye twitched; it galled her more than she could say that Meredith wasn't exactly wrong. "You can't keep pressing mages like this," she pointed out.

"What other option do we have?" Meredith demanded. "Tell me, Champion," she entreated, her voice breaking with emotion, "that you have not seen with your own eyes what they can do, heard the lies of mages that seek power!"

Bethany recalled Captain Jeven, the corrupt guard-captain that Aveline had discovered, replaced, and eventually had to kill. He'd been mundane in as many ways as the Champion could imagine. "Mages aren't the only ones who lie and seek power," she countered.

Orsino took the chance to jump in again. "You would cast us all as villains," he accused Meredith. "Yet it is not so!"

The knight-commander turned her attention to the first enchanter, the anger in her expression mingling uncomfortably with sympathy. "I know," she admitted. "And it breaks my heart to do it...but we must be vigilant." Then her face turned, self-righteousness bubbling up from deep within. "If you cannot tell me another way," she snarled, "then do not brand me a tyrant."

The first enchanter shook his head. "This is getting us nowhere," he observed, turning toward the steps. "Grand Cleric Elthina will put a stop to this." He made to mount the bottom step, but Meredith clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"You will not bring Her Grace into this," the knight-commander growled, yanking Orsino around to face her.

From somewhere behind Bethany, an odd voice rang out, half-familiar and also utterly foreign. "The grand cleric cannot help you," it said, and as its owner stepped forward, she recognised-barely-that it was Anders. He looked thinner and paler than she'd ever seen, his face covered in blond-white stubble, and his great black coat was near to falling apart on his shoulders. He carried his staff openly, horizontal to the ground, heedless of the gathered templars.

Meredith dropped Orsino and advanced on her newest interlocutor. "Explain yourself, mage," she demanded.

"I will not stand by and watch you treat all mages like criminals," the man declared, bringing his staff up and butting the end upon the ground for emphasis, "while those who would lead us bow to their templar jailers." That last he spat directly at Orsino, taking a defiant step toward both of the Circle's supposed guardians.

The first enchanter swelled with rage. "How dare you speak to me-"

"The Circle has failed us, Orsino," Anders droned on, in that half-voice that wasn't like anything Bethany had ever heard, even when Justice was out of control. He sounded like a man possessed by something far more sinister than a demon, somehow, and that made the Champion shiver. "Even you should be able to see that!" He turned away, and Bethany saw the Fade itself glowing through the cracks in his face. "The time has come to act. There can be no half-measures."

He halted a few paces away, and Bethany's heart leapt into the back of her throat; she felt the air shift with raw magic, and she could guess that whatever it was could not be good. "Anders," she ventured, taking a step closer to her friend. "What have you done?"

The renegade mage would not face her. "There can be no turning back," he groaned, and it sounded like he wept.

Bethany blinked, still confused, but nearly all of her earlier frustration with Meredith and Orsino was forgotten. Instead she was afraid, deep in her belly, like she hadn't been since her second trip into the Deep Roads. Like she hadn't been since the darkness stole over her, after her duel with the Arishok, and she'd been certain that her eyes would never open again. The Champion's lips parted, but before she could think of something to speak, a tremor shuddered through the ground beneath her feet.

Isabela and Aveline both gasped, and several of the guards yelled curses. Bethany whipped around, feeling the air shake around her, and she saw the source of the disturbance; a great, red light rose from near the centre of Hightown, right where the top spire of the Chantry should have poked through the city's skyline. Chunks of the building rose around the beam of light, swirling faster and faster as they grew closer together, and then a great, shuddering blast sent debris flying in all directions.

Out of instinct, Bethany drew her swords, crossing them before her in midair and casting a magical barrier that kept a large hunk of worked stone from barreling into everyone gathered at the foot of the Lowtown steps. None of the templars seemed to pay the display any mind, even as the boulder was deflected into a nearby sandstone wall. Bethany let the barrier fade, but she kept her blades in hand as smaller pieces of flaming debris rained down around them.

Meredith seemed, for once, at a loss. "Maker, have mercy…" she muttered, under her breath.

When Anders spoke again, he sounded all too human. "There can be no peace."

"Elthina! No!" Sebastian seemed to have come out of whatever hole he'd been hiding in just in time to witness the Chantry's destruction. He sank to his knees, casting further denials. "Maker, no! She was your most faithful, your most beloved…" He held out a hand toward Hightown, tilting his head and starting into a benediction from the Chant of Light.

The first enchanter had eyes only for Anders. "Why?" He asked, breathless in his shock. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"I removed the chance of compromise," the renegade mage rebuffed, "because there  _is_  no compromise." There was no defiance in his voice; if anything, he sounded more hopeless than Bethany had ever heard him before.

Meredith seemed to be the first among the Circle retinue of templars and mages to truly regain her senses. "The grand cleric has been slain by magic," she observed, her eyes narrowing. "The Chantry destroyed." She rounded upon both mages, Anders and Orsino. "As Knight-Commander of Kirkwall," she announced, and Bethany knew what she was to say even as she spoke. "I hereby invoke the Right of Annulment; every mage in the Circle is to be executed. Immediately!"

Orsino pointed out the obvious. "The Circle didn't even do this!" He looked far more distraught about the deaths of Elthina and the rest of the faithful than the knight-commander, as he looked to Bethany. "Champion, you can't let her! Help us stop this madness!"

"And I demand you stand with us," Knight-Commander Meredith declared. "Even you must see that this outrage cannot be tolerated!"

"Why are we debating the Right of Annulment," Sebastian broke in, "when the monster who did this is right here!" He seethed with rage, looking from Meredith to Bethany and back again. "I swear to you, I will kill him!"

Anders made no move to defend himself. Instead he looked to Bethany, and he seemed just as frightened as she'd felt a few moments before. "It can't be stopped now," he breathed. "You have to choose."

Her lips parted, but an overwhelming sense of guilt pressed down upon her shoulders. "Was that...why you needed me to distract the grand cleric, the other day?" It had seemed an odd request from the man, but just the latest in a string of them that had seen her digging through muck in Darktown and harvesting dragon dung in the Bone Pit.

Sebastian's eyes added to the Champion's sense of shame. "You...were part of this?" He hissed.

"If you'd known what I was doing," Anders explained, "you would have felt honour-bound to stop me." And he was not wrong in that. "I couldn't take that chance." He also couldn't quite meet her eyes. "The Circle is an injustice," he went on, "in many places beyond Kirkwall. The world needs to see!"

"Elthina was not the Circle," Sebastian growled. "She was a good woman, and you murdered her!"

First Enchanter Orsino made his presence known once more. "You fool," he spat at Anders. "You've doomed us all!"

The renegade mage threw his shoulders back and glared at Orsino as though he were the criminal. "We were already doomed," Anders exclaimed. "A quick death now, or a slow one later...I'd rather die fighting."

When he looked back at Bethany, all eyes seemed to follow, and she felt the weight of their expectations adding to her own inadvertent responsibility for the Chantry's destruction. "The Circle does more harm than good," she observed, intending to go on with a reprimand for Anders' foolish action when Meredith cut her off.

"It doesn't matter," the knight-commander said. "Even if I wished to, I could not stay my hand. The people will demand blood."

 _Funny_ , the Champion thought.  _Weren't you just complaining about blood?_  But instead, she looked from Anders to Orsino, and his flock of distressed followers. "I won't let her slaughter all of you," she promised, shoving aside her guilts and doubts. Their blood would not pay for Elthina's life, no matter how loudly Meredith demanded it.

"But what of Anders?" Sebastian wondered aloud, still furious.

Bethany didn't even acknowledge his presence; instead she glanced to her own company, to the friends and warriors she'd fought and bled with for so many years. Aveline was the first to speak, just as she'd been the first to enter Bethany's life. "Hawke," she breathed, uncertainty written all over her face. "If you do this...I'm not sure I can follow." Honest as always.

Fenris overrode any answer Bethany might have given. "And so you would defend these mages," he sneered, "after all they've done?" He looked more than mutinous. "Throw yourself at a hopeless cause?"

"You sure about this?" Varric gruffed, shaking his head. "Even you might not win this fight…"

"I believe in you, Hawke," Merrill asserted, though her voice trembled slightly. "I know we can do this,  _lethal'lan_."

The Dalish elf's declaration of loyalty helped Bethany hold her despair at bay, but Isabela's cocky smirk was enough to birth a smidgen of hope within the Champion. "Well, shit," the pirate swore. "What have you gotten yourself into this time, Isabela?"

Bethany's smile lasted just long enough for her to turn back to the Circle's factions. "Think carefully, Champion," Meredith admonished. "Stand with them, and you will share their fate."

The Champion grimaced. "I'm not helping you, Meredith," she reiterated, though Orsino's gratitude wasn't nearly as satisfying as the knight-commander's affronted expression.

"This is a mistake," Fenris declared, from behind her. "I cannot support you in this, Hawke...but I will not stand against you."

She only nodded; from the moment of the Chantry's explosion, some part of Bethany had understood that the Tevinter elf, the former slave of mages, could not bring himself to defend them. She was just grateful that he turned and walked away, rather than throw his lot in with Meredith and her templars. The rest of her companions, from Aveline to Isabela, all declared their loyalty in their myriad ways.

Meredith stepped through her knot of templars, heading deeper into Lowtown. "You are a fool, Champion," she spat over her shoulder, and then issued orders to her subordinates. "Kill them all! I shall rouse the rest of the Order!"

Orsino turned to his mages. "Go!" He barked. "Get to the Gallows before it's too late!" As the lower-ranking mages scattered and ran, however, the first enchanter unshouldered his three-headed staff and stood ready to fight.

Bethany did not wait for the templars to make the first move; she leapt into their ranks, her swords flashing and spitting fire. Spells from Orsino and Merrill coupled with bolts from Bianca, so that the armoured men and women fell almost before Aveline and Isabela could join the melee. Sebastian had retreated to the steps, but he did not draw his bow, or Bethany would have killed him as well.

When the last templar lay twitching on the ground, First Enchanter Orsino shook his head in disbelief. "So it's come to this," he breathed, disgusted by the carnage. "I don't know if we can win this war, Champion," he told Bethany, "but…thank you." He spared a glance for Anders, who despite his bravado hadn't participated in the fighting, and was instead rocking back and forth upon an overturned crate. "I will leave your...friend for you to deal with," Orsino allowed. "I must return to the Gallows-meet me there as soon as you can."

And then he was gone, and all eyes were on Bethany once more. All eyes except for Aveline's, that is, as the guard-captain was conferring with Donnic and barking orders to her own troops. Hesitantly, the Champion stepped closer to Anders, who refused to look anywhere but the middle distance ahead of him. "There's nothing you can say to me that I haven't already said to myself," the renegade mage pre-empted her. "I took a spirit into my soul and changed myself forever to achieve this.  _This_  is the justice all mages have awaited." His voice cracked, an all too human sound, and he did not stop rocking as he spoke.

Bethany let her swordpoints drop, though she did not move to resheath her weapons. "Did that spirit tell you to do this?" She ventured, looking for some way to make sense of the man's actions.

"No," Anders supplied, without reservation. "It was…" But he trailed off and shook his head. "When we merged," he went on, "he ceased to be. We are one now." He'd made such claims before, but Bethany remained unconvinced, owing to the gaps in his memory whenever the spirit made itself manifest. Oblivious to the Champion's skepticism, Anders went on. "I can no more ignore the injustice of the Circle than he could."

The Champion felt a new wave of guilt press upon her. "You should have told me," she breathed. "I might have...understood."  _I might have helped you find another way_.

Sebastian found his voice again. "You condone this?!" He screamed, and Bethany only spared him a glance to ensure he hadn't readied his bow to strike. "The murder of an innocent woman? Someone you knew?" He shook his head. "She trusted you!"

Bethany might have replied, she might have attempted to clear up his misconceptions, but Anders continued on as if the archer hadn't spoken. "I wanted to tell you," he admitted, his voice suddenly clear if only for a moment. "But...what if you'd tried to stop me?" He mused. "Or worse, what if you'd wanted to  _help_?" He shook his head, still rocking back and forth. "I couldn't let you do that, Bethany." His head tilted back enough for him to observe the smoke-shrouded sky, backlit by Lowtown's foundries and still littering fiery pebbles intermittently. "The world needs to see this," the renegade mage insisted. "Then we can all stop pretending the Circle is a solution. And if I pay for that with my life...then I pay," he declared, looking down once more. "At least then Justice might at least be free."

The Champion felt her throat run dry when she realised that he expected her to execute him. She'd killed far too many people for that thought to turn her stomach, and she couldn't deny that his rashness had earned it, but...she owed the man too much. He'd saved Merrill's life, along with Paqua's, on the night of the child's birth. That experience had brought an end to his hitherto-constant sniping at the Dalish mage for her past choices, and his dedication to her niece gave Bethany a new level of respect for him as a healer and a person. She couldn't kill him, no matter what he'd done, and she wouldn't ask anyone else to kill him for her.

"I think he should come with us," Merrill opined, disapproval mixed with her own gratitude for their shared history. "Do what he can to put things right."

"If I'd been in that Chantry today," Sebastian demanded, "would you be waffling now?" He didn't seem to understand the blank look that she gave him. "You know what must be done!" The archer insisted, with an undertone that the Champion did not like.

"Whatever you do," Anders spat, "do it quickly."

There was no other choice that Bethany could countenance. "Help me defend the mages," she told him.  _The ones you sentenced to die_.

That got the man to stop shaking on his perch. He rose to his feet, blinking at her in disbelief. "You mean...fight with you?" He ventured, tentatively. "I...didn't think you'd let me," he admitted. "But if you do…I'll fight the templars," he vowed, more confidently. "Damned right I will!"

Sebastian had come down from the stairs, and now he stood between Anders and Bethany and the quickest path out of their corner. "No," he rasped. "I cannot let this abomination walk free. He dies, or I'm returning to Starkhaven," the archer declared, pounding his right fist into his open palm. He had a claim as the nominal prince of that city-state, though from Bethany's acquaintance with him, she'd learnt that he'd been very uncertain about his prospects of ruling the city...until now, apparently. "And when I return," Sebastian went on, "I will bring such an army with me that there will be nothing left of Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule!"

Bethany's right-hand blade lifted, seemingly of its own accord, and she was about to warn Sebastian to keep from interfering, when several things happened at once. The Champion heard Merrill gasp, Varric swear, and Isabela whistle; she saw a glint of silver sprout from the right-hand side of Sebastian's throat; and she felt the fine spray of arterial blood mist over her face. A longsword not dissimilar to her own appeared a moment later, poised at the joint of Sebastian's armour on his left flank, and a heartbeat later the blade was buried halfway to the hilt in the man's chest.

Sebastian didn't look as if he understood what was happening to him, but his knees buckled as another great gout of blood spurted from beneath his arm. Athadra's face was pitiless as she drew her right-hand blade back, sawing into the archer's neck. "Good luck with raising that army, Chantryman," she gruffed overtop Sebastian's strangled death throes, and when he'd fallen face-first into the dirt, the Commander put her boot onto his spine and worked her left-hand blade free from his torso. She looked almost directly at Bethany and offered the slightest of nods. "Let's get to the docks," the elf said, and though it'd been nearly three years since she'd given Bethany an order, the Champion of Kirkwall could not but obey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to my excellent beta-reader, butercup23, who's stuck with this story the whole way. And thanks to everyone who's reading along! Almost there!


	60. EPILOGUE: It's Been Awhile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric finishes spinning his yarn for the Seekers, and he can only hope it's enough to get him back out of Kirkwall alive. But beware, because we may not have heard the last of the Hawkes and the Grey Wardens.

 

_End of the road, Varric_ , the dwarf thinks to himself as he slides into the study's chair one last time. Cassandra and her two pets are standing by the door, but they look eager, rather than murderous. "So," Varric begins, after using a toothpick to work out the last of the lunch he's just wheedled from his captors. "We were just getting to the part where everything me and my friends ever loved went belly-up. And then exploded. And poisoned the well of an orphanage." He could go on, but he doesn't want to test the Seeker's good mood. "Any questions before I get into the last big fight in the Gallows?"

Cassandra doesn't look nearly as sure of herself as she did when she'd first had him dragged here. "You're saying that Anders acted alone? That the Champion was used against her knowledge?"

The dwarf nods and tries to emphasise the point he'd been making before lunch. "Hawke had no idea what Blondie was doing all throughout that Cloudreach and Bloomingtide," he reiterates. "Hell, none of us did; he barely swung by the Hanged Man anymore, after we picked up Junior from that rogue faction of templars and mages a few months before everything went to shit." He shakes his head and shifts the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. "I saw Hawke's eyes after the Chantry blew up; she was as surprised and shocked as any of us. Maybe more, since Blondie had tricked her into  _helping him_. If it'd been me, I would've been more than a little bit tempted to kill the bastard for what he did, and how Meredith took it."

"And yet the Champion spared him, and killed Sebastian Vael instead," Cassandra supplies, and Varric nearly chokes on his toothpick.

"Now I don't remember saying anything about  _that_ , Seeker," the dwarf insists. "They had an argument, and Choirboy stormed off, ranting about raising an army and tearing down Kirkwall brick by brick. The Champion never laid a finger on him that I ever saw." He keeps his face perfectly straight; this isn't his first poker game, even against the Seeker. She's testing him, but she doesn't know as much as she thinks she does.

Cassandra doesn't seem mollified, but she doesn't start waving her dagger around in his face, either. "Then how do you explain that the Prince of Starkhaven simply disappeared, dwarf? No one has seen him since that night, more than a year ago; noblemen do not simply vanish without a trace."

Varric hunches his shoulders. "A lot of people went missing that night," he points out, sourly. "Templars and mages were tearing their way through the city, trying to get back to the Gallows and rally their allies. Choirboy could've run afoul of any one of them...or he might've met a gang of bandits on the road."  _Or said the wrong thing around the Warden_ , he adds, mentally, but he hasn't touched a drop of ale all day and so he's under no risk of slipping up. "He and the Elf both skipped out, and I've never seen either one again...haven't seen Bartrand either, for that matter," he adds, under his breath. "Not that I've been looking, exactly."

The Seeker looks like she wants to interrogate him further on the issue, but then she shakes her head. "You're right," she concedes. "Sebastian's fate has little bearing on the overall course of events. But I am curious about why Cethlenn spared Anders, when he betrayed her trust." Her eyes narrow. "Do you have an explanation for that?"

Varric rubs his chin, grazing his thumb over just the right amount of stubble, and he lets out an annoyed grunt that he can't use shaving as an excuse to get out from under the woman's stare for another few minutes. "He saved her life after the fight with the Arishok," the dwarf reminds her. "And that was after he'd spent most of a day helping Daisy out of her own tight spot." He hopes she doesn't pick too closely on that point; Cassandra's let her interest in Merrill's child be deflected before, but there's surely a limit to how many times he can dodge her curiosity. "And anyway," the dwarf moves on, "I could say that he'd healed all of us up more times than anyone would've liked to admit, and that when you got past the whole demon-in-his-head thing, he  _seemed_  like a decent guy-and yes, I know how horrible his actions at the end were, I was  _there_ ," he insists, overriding the objection he sees mounting in the Seeker's eyes. "But ultimately I think it was because Meredith was going to kill a whole lot of innocent people, and he was still willing and able to help save them. Hawke might've thought killing him was letting him off too easy."

"That is...not completely unthinkable," Cassandra admits. Varric doesn't flinch when she steps closer, which he supposes is progress, of a kind. Still, he's glad when Mouth-breather and Knuckle-dragger stay to each side of the door. "I believe the Champion and the rest of your friends were just about to embark upon the Gallows," she reminds the dwarf. "Did they meet the Wardens at the docks?"

Varric gives her a single nod. "We picked up the Warden-Commander and Sunshine along the way there. The other Wardens and the assassin made their way across in time for the final showdown." When the Seeker merely gestures, he takes it as licence to dive back into the story. "We'd had to fight our share of abominations and crazy blood mages, and a small army of templars, before we actually made it to the water...but that all just seemed like practice when we finally made it to the Gallows.

"At first, it wasn't too bad; Orsino was in the atrium, fending off a few templars, and Meredith showed up just as we arrived. Orsino demanded that they talk things out, rather than destroy the city along with the Circle. He wanted the knight-commander to revoke the Right of Annulment...he even offered to help her search the tower room by room for any sign of suspicious magic.

"The knight-commander seemed almost sad; she told him that his offer was commendable, but it was too late. The grand cleric was dead, killed by magic, and she claimed her hands were tied. Even when Hawke tried to step between them and be reasonable, Meredith just dismissed her, claiming that she'd already thrown her lot in with the mages and so she'd share their fate. The rest of the templars were coming across the water; the knight-commander must have thought she didn't have the forces just then to confront the Champion, Orsino, the Warden-Commander, and the rest of us, so she let us retreat further into the Gallows while she gathered her strength.

"Orsino hadn't become the first enchanter for nothing, though. He gathered up every mage he could find in one of the back chambers of the tower, and picked a solid core of experienced volunteers. Then he gave them all a rousing speech, about how necessary it was that they survive and spread word to the other Circles about how Meredith and her templars had gone too far for too long. Dozens of mages fled through secret tunnels, and those that remained looked like they were prepared to die.

"Hawke gathered up all of her people and she made sure we were alright; she even offered Sunshine and the Rivaini a way out, if they wanted, but Sunshine wasn't going anywhere...and, somehow, the Rivaini stuck by her. Even though I had my doubts about making it out of that damned tower alive, I even managed to make some kind of quip about there being worse endings than some grand sacrifice for the good of Kirkwall. And then I told her that it'd been an honour doing business with her, and she let me get back to counting Bianca's bolts while she went and tended the rest of her friends.

"The Warden kept to herself while the others rallied their courage; she didn't seem to want or need any encouragement, and she didn't have any to offer to any of the mages who'd stayed behind. Her only conceit was to huddle up with Sunshine, once, just before the first probing attack of templars came; I couldn't hear it too clearly, but I'm pretty sure they just recited the Grey Warden motto:  _In War, Victory; In Peace, Vigilance; In Death, Sacrifice_.

"We arrayed ourselves as best we could in the tight space; I hung back with Daisy and a bunch of Circle mages, while the Wardens and the warriors and the mages brave enough to fight hand-to-hand set up a bottleneck at the front of the square. When the first wave of templars rushed us, they were already bloody from running through a few mages we hadn't been able to round up in time, but we fought them to a standstill and pushed them back into the office courtyard. About two thirds of Orsino's mages died, though, and even some of Hawke's friends were pretty banged up before the templars pulled back to regroup.

"Orsino started acting funny, crying over the bodies of the mages that he'd been trying to protect. He mumbled something about how the templars should've just drowned them out of the womb, and when Hawke told him that he wasn't helping, he told her that he wasn't interested in helping anyone anymore. And then…then he mentioned Quentin. As in the evil apostate that had chopped up a bunch of women to rebuild his long-lost love, Quentin. The one who took cut off Leandra's head and stuck it to another woman's body;  _that_ Quentin. The first enchanter said that he'd put Quentin's research aside because he'd thought it was too dangerous, but now he saw that it was the only way to withstand Meredith's attack.

"Then, I guess, he must have just gone crazy. Hawke and Sunshine were both in shock to learn that the first enchanter had been on a first-name basis with the man that murdered their mother, and so they could only watch as Orsino slit his wrists open and spread his arms wide. All those dead bodies started twitching, and then they started floating around him, until the man stood in the middle of a ball of dead flesh. It all crushed together, pulsing and deforming into a single mass, with two big legs and about a dozen other limbs dangling out of its middle.

"'Oh,  _shit_ ,' the Warden said. 'It looks like a fuckin' Harvester.' And let me tell you, when the Hero of Ferelden starts to sound nervous, you find a little more brown in your trousers than you're entirely comfortable with. Believe me.

"Just then another squad of templars came through the funnel, and so we had to fight them and the big, corps-y demon thing that Orsino had turned into, all at the same time. The Harvester, if that's what the hell it was, didn't seem to recognise anyone or anything that it didn't want to tear apart. A few more mages died that way, and they only made the thing stronger. We had to take down corpses and demons that it called to its defence; it took the Champion of Kirkwall and the Warden working together to finally take Orsino down, with not a little bit of help from Bianca, if I do say so, myself. When all was said and done, Hawke's party was the only thing left standing in that back courtyard, but some of us were pretty banged up. Blondie had to work overtime, and Sunshine helped, but I've still got some scars where that monster tried to get a little too personal for my tastes. I know Aveline hasn't walked the same way since then...and the night was only half over.

"After that, the Warden got a little more assertive; she goaded the rest of us into pushing forward, out of our comfortable little death-trap, but we only moved when Hawke gave us the word. It was easier than we expected, at first, since the templars had to deal with a bunch of Shades and minor demons that Sunshine and the Warden said had likely come across the Veil after Orsino had gotten possessed. We fought our way through the monsters and templars both, down corridors and across the office courtyard. By then we'd taken care of the demons, which left us fighting a fresh wave of templars, who wanted to keep us from reaching the atrium. After surviving a Harvester, though, we weren't about to let a bunch of humans stand between us and our way out of that place.

"Meredith wasn't exactly human, at that point, but we didn't know that at the time. She stood with about twenty templars, but she didn't even have her sword out, as though she'd been expecting a report that we'd all been eliminated. She sneered when the Champion hit the bottom of the stairs; the Champion was still catching her breath, but she spat out, 'You'll pay for what you've done here.'

"'I will be rewarded for what I've done here,' the knight-commander boasted. 'In this world and the next.'

"But the Warden stepped between her and Hawke, all scars and blood and rage. 'I'll give you your reward, Meredith,' she growled. 'And I'll kill any who make their stand with you.'

"Meredith didn't back away from the bloodied sword in her face. 'You were never part of this Circle,' she told to the Warden, 'and I tolerated that. But in defending them, you've chosen to share their fate,' she pronounced. 'Kill the Wardens and the Champion! Kill them all!'

"The Warden readied to strike out, but just then, the knight-captain spoke up. 'I thought we agreed to arrest the Champion,' he said, though I caught him shooting the Warden a look that seemed to beg for patience from her, as well.

"The knight-commander didn't take too kindly to her subordinate second-guessing her commands. She tried to bring him in line, but he refused. She screamed about his insubordination, and finally she brought her own sword to bear...but rather than addressing her rogue templar, or the Champion, or even the Warden, Meredith looked straight at  _me_. 'You recognise it, do you not?' She asked, as the whole thing started pulsing, just like a heartbeat. 'Pure lyrium, taken from the Deep Roads,' she explained. 'The dwarf charged me a great deal for his prize.'

"I couldn't help it; I yelled. 'It stole Bartrand's mind away!' I said. 'It nearly killed him!'

"'He was weak,' Meredith spat, 'whereas I am not!' Then she turned to her forces and screamed at them to slaughter us, and the knight-captain drew his blade on her. He tried to relieve her of her command, then and there, since she'd clearly gone crazier than a nug in a snakepit...and then she proceeded to denounce everyone in sight as a thrall of blood mages. The sword glowed, angrily, and Meredith began reciting verses from the Chant of Light as the air started shaking around her.

"The templars formed a loose circle around their knight-commander, all facing toward her with shields and swords at the ready; I think they must have thought she was possessed, and I don't know that they were wrong. But for at least a few of them, that was a mistake...because they'd turned their back on the Warden. Her own sword was glowing a brighter blue than I'd ever seen; I can still smell the blood sizzling on the metal. Anyway, she cut down the templars that stood between her and Meredith, and the rest of them were knocked back off their feet when the two women came together.

"They moved faster than I could keep up with, their blades flashing, ripping thunderclaps through the air whenever the weapons came together...and they came together  _a lot_. Any time one of the templars tried to step in to help one or the other, both Meredith and the Warden would turn and attack the newcomer before starting in on each other again; Hawke and the rest of the gang could only stand and watch as they kept hacking at each other, matching blow for blow.

"Then, not content with scaring us half to death, the Warden and Meredith went for broke; their feet left the ground, almost like they didn't even notice, and the took their duel to the air above the open courtyard. Meredith's red aura mixed with the Warden's blue, and they became two great balls of light, dancing and clashing in the sky. It might have been beautiful, if it hadn't been so frightening.

"About that time, the rest of the Wardens in Kirkwall arrived on the scene, along with the Antivan elf that the Rivaini knew from way back when. I thought they were just going to have to enjoy the light show, but a minute later, the Warden fell to the ground like a shooting star, hard enough to crack the flagstones in every direction where she landed. Her sword impaled itself in stone about ten feet away, and the blue veins in the metal bled out all over floor of the atrium.

"Anders and Bethany both rushed over to the Warden, but Meredith wasn't done. She landed on a raised platform, bright red glowing out of cracks in her armour, out of her hands, out of her eyes. And then she planted her own sword into the platform, shooting off that same energy to each side of her. It took hold in some of the huge, bronze statues that had featured so prominently in the Gallows...and they came to life. So while the two healers were busy trying to save the Hero of Ferelden, the rest of us had to do our best to dodge metal hands and feet. The templars forgot, right then, that our gang had killed upwards of a hundred of their friends, and we all fought for our lives.

"We barely made it. The knight-captain was also severely hurt, and about half of the templars died, along with one of the Grey Wardens. The elf that they'd recruited from the Alienage...she rolled out from under one of the statues as it fell, only to come face-to-face with Meredith. Hawke tried to intervene, but she didn't make it in time, and the knight-commander cut Fae clean in two. That...proved to be a mistake. Somehow, someway, the Hero of Ferelden got to her feet, but the Antivan and Nathaniel held her back, while the Champion and the big horn-head Grey Warden both charged Meredith. She still moved too fast for either of them to get a solid blow in, but she was slowing down every second, glowing brighter and burning hotter.

"In the end, Meredith defeated herself. She buffeted her attackers back with another burst of energy, and begged for the Maker's aid. If He was listening, he answered by shattering her lyrium-sword into a million pieces. But  _she_  didn't stop glowing, and her cry of frustration turned into a shriek of pain. It faded away as she dropped down to her knees. The knight-commander burned alive, from the inside out; when we all hobbled out of there, there was nothing left but a cinder in the shape of a kneeling woman." Varric shakes his head, grimacing at all of the things he's tried not to remember for the past year. But the whole interrogation was leading up to this, and he can't say that he didn't have a chance to prepare himself.

A handful of seconds passed before anyone else spoke up; this time, it was Knuckle-dragger. "So what happened next?" As though he hasn't just heard, from beginning to end, the most amazing story his puny little mind will ever be able to grasp.

Cassandra looks over her shoulder sharply, almost like she's taking offence on Varric's behalf, but the dwarf chuckles. "Normally my policy is to always leave them wanting more," he gruffs. "But in this case...I'll make an exception." He waits until all eyes are upon him once more, and then heaves a sigh. "We were all half-dead, at least. The knight-captain and the Warden were barely walking, and the rest of us weren't too much better off. There was a tense moment when the rest of the templars realised how weak we were, and there was almost one last stand-off...but the knight-captain slurred out an order for them to stand down, and they obeyed. The Warden asked him to come with us, for some reason, but the man refused to leave Kirkwall behind. So, broken but not defeated, the Champion and her allies hobbled our way down the Gallows' dock, where the Rivaini's ship was waiting for us. We fled, before we could get into any more trouble.

"Word of the slaughter spread quickly; Anders' name became a rallying cry, a reminder that the mighty templars could be defied. He and the Champion had defended the mages against a brutal injustice, and many lived to tell the tale, despite all that was lost. More Circles rose up and set the world on fire...and more templars arrived in Kirkwall to restore order, but by then, we were already long gone.

"We vanished over the sea, but circumstance eventually forced us all apart...all except for Sunshine and Isabela, of course. I hear they're still harrying the coastlines along Antiva and Rivain to this very day.

"As for the Champion herself...I think she simply retired. She'd spent so many years trying to hold one city together that the task of keeping Thedas from tearing itself apart was just too much for her. I haven't seen hide nor hair of her in over six months, when we split up in the Anderfels. At the time, she claimed she was going into the Donarks, where there are said to be tribes as untamed as any in the south...but I wouldn't put it past her to have found a nice little town to set up a craft shop in, where they might never have heard of her legend." He leans back into his chair, steepling his fingers, and feeling proud of himself just for still being alive. "So...that's it," the dwarf announces. "That's the whole story."

"Then Meredith provoked the Circle," Cassandra surmises, her brows knitting. "She was to blame."

Varric shrugs. "Or it was that goddamned idol," he offers. "Or Anders," he gruffs. "Take your pick."

The Seeker nods. "Even so," she adds, "had the Champion not been there…"

"It might never have even gone that far," he says, before he can help himself; if they'd never gotten that sodding idol out of the ground in the first place…

"I see," Cassandra claims, but Varric isn't quite sure she does.

Regardless, the dwarf has questions of his own, now that he's had to recount the last six or so years of his life. It might not hurt to throw Cassandra off balance before she starts asking about Junior, too. "So how does hearing all this help?" He demands, steepling his fingers. "You've already lost all the Circles. In fact, haven't the templars rebelled as well?" He wonders, cocking a brow. "I thought you decided to abandon the Chantry to hunt for the mages."

The Seeker looks at a spot on the floor, halfway between them. "Not all of us desire war, Varric," she informs him, before raising her eyes. He sees an earnestness there that's almost unsettling. "And there have been...other rumblings. Grey Wardens pressing for resources, claiming that the darkspawn are growing more powerful." She strides close enough for him to reach out and touch her, but he keeps his hands firmly to himself. "Please," she asks, "if you know where the Champion is, you  _must_  tell me. She is a hero, someone whom the mages would listen to...someone that was there at the beginning." Cassandra's head shakes from left to right, slowly. "The Champion could stop this madness before it's too late; she may be the only one who can."

"Is that what this is all about?" The dwarf mumbles under his breath, shaking his own head. "In that case," he allows, surprised by his honesty, "I wish I could help you."

Cassandra hides defeat rather impressively. "Just tell me one thing, then," she demands of him, her face setting. "Is the Champion dead?"

Part of him is glad that she didn't believe his quip about the Anderfels, and Varric finds himself chuckling. "Oh, I doubt that," he admits.

The Seeker nods, frowning thoughtfully. "Then you are free to go, Varric," she allows, turning away from him, still carrying that book she'd checked his story against. "May the Maker watch over you during the dark times ahead of us."

"Same to you, Seeker," Varric calls after her. "Same to you." She nearly makes it to the door before Varric cries out. "Wait!" He begs. "Where the hell is Bianca?"

Cassandra pauses, favouring him with the merest ghost of a smirk, before she nods to Mouth-breather. "Fetch the dwarf his crossbow," she commands, "and see that he comes to no harm."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! It's been a really interesting experience, and if anyone's enjoyed reading this story half as much as I've enjoyed writing it, I'll call that a win. Thanks so much as always to my indefatigable beta-reader, buttercup23, and to everyone who has read (or will read) along, especially those kind enough to review! Until the next story!


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